


Bittersweet Thing

by lovestuck



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Complicated Relationships, Daddy Kink, Dubious Morality, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Incest, Mafia-like organizations, Mobsters and mafia, Older Man/Younger Woman, Organized Crime, Parent/Child Incest, Safe Sane and Consensual, Size Kink, Slow Burn, exploring morals and relationships, not as dark as it sounds, still dubious morality though, totally fictional kind of New York
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-05-25 15:30:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 21
Words: 208,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14980121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovestuck/pseuds/lovestuck
Summary: She’s seventeen when she finds the photo hidden at the back of her mother's closet. A man grinning, a name scrawled in blue, ball-point pen:Nicolas Cordova.She’s seventeen and he’s nothing more than a sperm donor. Nothing more than a father-shaped hole in her history. He’s nothing, she tells herself. Nothing.But he’s not.He’s—A man in a night club, a man in a suit, a man who took one look at her and saw the same thing she did. Dimples and eyes and something that cut between them like a knife, like a slit-throat bleed out, choking them on choices and family and a want she isn’t sure either one of them can say no to.Nicolas Cordova.Father.





	1. Part One, I

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty shameless, not as dark/complicated as it sounds. Main character is seventeen at the start, so there's some dub-con with her being underage in that sense, but everything is consensual, just messed up lol.
> 
> This is mostly just self-indulgent exploration on daddy kink in the only way that really makes sense to me and something I've wanted to explore for awhile.
> 
> Don't like it, don't read and if you'd like to see more, please comment, I wrote this pretty much just for myself but thought some others might be interested, but if no one is, I don't know if I'll keep posting it.

Chapter I

 

 

 

                  Ellie looks at the name messily scribbled on the piece of paper she holds in her hands, a torn bit of lined paper, worn soft from her own hands. Folded, refolded, opened and closed so many times…

And now she’s here, on the subway, snuck out of dorms and towards the place where she thinks the man bearing that name is.

_Elysium._

She’d heard the name more than once, everyone knows about Elysium. An exclusive club, the front for dancing and drinking, and the back…well, teenagers talked about it, a place for decadence and debauchery. A sort of world’s end gap, like through it you could enter Hell and all the sin that would entail.

Rather ironic name, she thinks, because teenagers talk and everyone knows what Elysium _could_ be like. Not that many got in, or any she knew except Ethan, who claimed his father was in with owner, whatever that meant. He never failed to brag about it, though Ellie doubts he had ever actually been inside.

Ellie looks back down at the paper, chewing her lip, staring at the same two names and one address she’s been staring at for months. _Nicolas_ Cordova... _Elysium._

Nicolas Cordova, apparent owner of Elysium, and, Ellie has discovered, her _father_.

Ellie blows out a breath, the subway jostling her slightly as she stands, her stop next on the route.

It’s late, _too late_ , and she shouldn’t be here at all, but she's been talking herself out of this for months, folding and refolding that little piece of paper like it would hold some new answer for her the next time she looked at the name.

 

 But, it hasn't.

 

The train stops and Ellie exits in a rush of musty air; climbing the steps out of the station. She wraps her jacket tighter, the September night more chilly than she expects as she exits the station, slipping between people; New York never quiet, never still, not even at night, busier sometimes, it seems, depending on where you were headed.

Lower Manhattan blends entertainment and business, and really, what better place for a club like Elysium than next to men and women earning bank in high end jobs? Give them a place to let loose, to spend that money and…

If Elysium were the example, apparently an elite club with a dubiously immoral back room…is the way to go.

And her dad _owns_ it, Ellie shivers, hugging herself tighter. _No_ , she thinks, _not her dad, Nicolas Cordova. Sperm donor._ Ellie never had a dad, just her mum. And that was good, Ellie had stopped asking after him years ago.

She _had._

And now, seventeen-years-old and here she is again, curious for a man who wasn't ever there.

At least this time she has a name.

 

 

 

 

                Ellie stands in front of the club, realising she probably should have dressed a little bit nicer, should have put on some make-up, or worn heels, maybe, because she _definitely_ does not look twenty-one. And _definitely_ does not look the type to get in, if the queue leading to the door is any indication.

She blows out a breath, looking over the line of men and women dressed and half-dressed in clothes that probably cost as much as Ellie's entire wardrobe; chewing her lip, she debates how to get in, how to even approach the line.

The cold breeze pushes through her jacket, and Ellie hugs herself, checking the time.

 _Eleven-thirty-three_ glows up at her and Ellie plucks up her courage from where ever it was sinking in her stomach and tells herself, _well, now or never._

She slips along the outside of the queue, sneakers scuffing a cigarette butt, ignoring the men and women in line (and the rapidly shrinking dresses alongside the rapidly angrier cut-eye looks she gets as she walks nearer the door.)

The bouncer doesn’t turn around until Ellie taps his arm. “Uhm, excuse me?”

The bouncer turns, tall, thick, and bald, with tattoos along his arms; he looks at her, eyes darting over her body and then back to her face. He grunts and turns back around, lifting the red chord for two girls who look way too chipper for the amount of skin they have on this weirdly cold night.

“Excuse me,” she tries again, and the bouncer turns, a sigh and an irritation crossing his face.

“Get gone, kid,” he grunts. “You ain’t near legal, no way. This _definitely_ isn’t your scene.”

“But—” she tries, but he turns away again.

And then again.

“I _need_ to speak to Nicolas Cordova.” Ellie lifts her voice, over the thump of the bass emitting from the club every time the door opens. There's another man, just on the other side of the bouncer, who leans back to look at Ellie, lanky but solid, a clipboard in his hands.

“Everyone _needs_ to speak to Nicolas Cordova,” the man says as his eyes flick over her in an appraising sort of way. Ellie kind of feels like telling him her age but that would defeat the entire purpose of trying to get in, and settles for trying again.

“Yes, but it’s really important—”

The man snorts. “Yeah, that’s what everyone says,” speaking over her when Ellie opens her mouth again, “Listen, Boss is a very busy man, and definitely not someone little girls like you should be getting involved with.”

Ellie frowns, flushing, “No, it’s not… not like that, I’m not…”

“Just go home, kid,” the other bouncer grunts. “Past your bedtime, innit?”

“I’m not _twelve,_ ” Ellie bites out. “Just let me see him, please?”

“No.” The man shakes his head, turning back to the clipboard.

“I swear if you tell him my name he’ll want to see me,” Ellie tries, she really doesn’t want to just blurt out something like, _I think he’s my father,_ to the whole queue…who are all starting to pay far too much attention to the girl standing at the front of the line and trying to weasel her way into the club.

She actually has no idea if her name will do anything, but it’s worth a shot to try to convince them to let her in.

“Oh,” the man says, quirking a brow and tapping his pen on the clipboard. “You on the list?”

Ellie shakes her head and he snorts again, turning away.

Desperate, Ellie steps closer and says, in a forceful rush: “ _I’m his kid!”_

The bouncer twists, the pen falls limp from the other man’s hand, mouth open.

“Mister Cordova doesn’t have—”

Ellie spreads her arms, “Well…”

The bouncer curses and the other man grabs her arm and hauls her through the doors.

The music thuds through her chest, deep and so powerful it feels like a fist banging on her ribs; so loud she can barely _think_.

Elysium opens into a massive dance floor and they pass by a path that circles it, and though the club is dark, lit by spots of white and rose-gold lights, the sides of the dance floor have booths, lit by small glowing lights, obviously for drinking and 'talking', for those not wanting to dance.

Looking around, as the man tugs Ellie through the crowd, seemingly indifferent to the press of bodies, Ellie sees an upper floor with glass railings but before she can take in much more than the floors and the bodies and the music, they reach the end of the dance floor.

He leads her up to a wide staircase, bypassing an elevator and darting up the stairs. At the top, a wide-open space, a modern silver chandelier giving off pale light and two more bouncers, nearly blending into the dark on either side of the staircase like black-suited gargoyles.

It’s not at all what she expected.

The upstairs is lit like the club, a rose gold tint outside of the shadowy areas, all low-lit, low hanging chandeliers. Soft, elegant, more classy than she expected for a club with a… a reputation.

But she’s tugged out of her thoughts when her eyes land on the long, crescent-shaped couch ahead. Filled with people, laughing, talking, drinks being poured and knocked back, but they all seem to be surrounding—

“Stay here,” the man orders, his voice nearly lost to the music as he leaves Ellie sanding, feeling stupid and small next to two massive bouncers. She glances at them from the corner of her eye, but all she sees is suit, muscle and the faint glow of a blacklight hanging somewhere far above them, tinting their white shirts a weird blue.

Biting her cheek, she tries not to fidget, to dart forward, scanning the couch for a face—

The bouncer circles behind the couch, leaning over the back to talk to the man in the middle, right in the middle, eased back in his seat, an arm stretched out over the couch back—

And she knows that face, has seen it in that photograph for months, felt the indents of her mother’s round scrawl spelling out a name.

 _Nicolas Cordova_.

Even in the dark light, even tinted a faint blue, Ellie can see the boy in the photo in front of her. Something in the angles, the shadows, the jaw…

The bouncer says something, leaning closer to Cordova’s ear. And then, Cordova’s eyes flick to her, obviously still listening to whatever the man says.

It’s a moment stuck in time, filled up with molasses, honey-thick with music dripping into her ears, with her heartbeat sticky in her chest, hitting her rib cage faster and faster and—

Nicolas Cordova lifts his drink to his lips and takes a long, slow swallow without taking his eyes off her. His lips move, so slow it’s like he’s stuck in the same syrupy moment she is as he says something into his bouncer’s ear.

She can’t look away, not when Cordova’s eyes are still locked on hers, not when even blinking feels difficult. Not with her heart still thumping faster and faster and—

And then there’s a hand on her arm and the moment breaks. Shatters. Fractures apart and she’s getting pulled towards the side of the upper level.

She wants to look back, itches too, feels her neck starting—

But the man leads her into a darker hallway, only small pockets of ceiling lights to guide the way. At the end of the hallway, a tinted glass elevator, a decorative triangle light emitting soft light from the ceiling above it.

“I—” Ellie stutters, her hands shaking, nerves climbing, _desperate_ to look back. “I—”

 

And bolts.

 

 

The cold air hits her first, the music chases her down the street, a distant _thud thud thud_ that’s far too in tune with the pounding of her heart. Chases her into the subway, her hands shaking, body shivering, her mind…

Stuck in a moment, all syrupy-smooth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

              She tries to push it out of her mind. Tries to forget the name, the club, the _idea_ of who her father is.

His face flickers up behind her eyelids only in the moments before she can rub them away, shove them out, focus on something else. Anything else.

She stands under the spray and the steam of the shower the next morning and works the last of the conditioner out of her hair; blinks away images of that angled, shadowed face…

 _It doesn’t matter,_ she tells herself. _He’s not your father, not really. You don’t need him._

Ellie towels off and dries her hair, zoning out under the rush of hot air before pulling on her clothes and getting ready for another day.

  _It’s nothing. It’s done._

_He’s nothing. It’s done._

 

It’s done. 

 

 

 

                The week blurs by, classes and lessons and practices starting and ending in a half hazy sort of slide of days that Ellie can barely focus on; her mind too focused on the man in the shadowed light of the club, on his face and who he was. _Is._

She stares down at her textbook, only half listening as Mya goes on about something beside her. She’s thought about telling her, thought about telling her about how she’s losing her mind because she’s so full of questions and curiosities that during her summer break she dug through her mother’s closet just to find _something else_.

(But there was nothing, nothing, just that one photo, that one name, that one date—)

That when she first found that blurred photo, that _name,_ on _accident—_ she spent months staring at it, months more looking into him, months of time tracing over the name again and again, trying to align Nicolas Cordova with _father, dad—_

 _Sperm donor,_ she tells herself. Nothing more.

The man was never there, her _mother_ was. Her _grandmother_ was. Ellie’s father was a subject to never be crossed, _he’s no one, Peanut, it’s you and me, isn’t it? Just you and me._

For years, that had been enough, to instill something like loyalty in her, something like hate for the idea of a man who was never there… who hadn’t _wanted_ to be there.

But then, Paul Hethridge, a face not so different from any other man Ellie’s mother had brought home over the years, (tall, quiet, dark-haired, strangely bookish for someone like her mother) and suddenly it was all, _he’s a good man, Ellie, he wants to take care of us, of me. He can be a father—_

_Father._

Ellie wants to scream sometimes, that she spent years asking, spent years asking for just a _little_ bit of information about who her father was— and her mother had him hidden, tucked, filed away in her closest like it was _nothing_.

In seventeen years, she couldn’t even give Ellie a _photo_.

Ellie drops her head down onto her textbook, the smooth, glossy pages about biology and cell division slipping under her forehead.

She thinks that’s when all this started, the first time her mother said something like _he would make a good father,_ and Ellie had been left thinking, _what happened to you and me? What happened to we don’t need anyone else?_

What happened to the man that was actually responsible for Ellie’s…creation?

Something smacks her side and Ellie jolts a little, looking over at Mya, her eyebrows lifting as the other girl scowls at her.

“Have you been listening to anything I just said, El?”

Ellie makes an apologetic face, “Sorry, I was just…”

“You’ve been really weird this week, and I _hate_ it, just so you know.”

Ellie rolls her eyes and then rolls onto her side to look at her roommate as she keeps going on.

“What are you so distracted by anyway?”

Ellie thinks again that she should tell her, just blurt it all out and see if she can make any sense of the mess, any sense out of any of the pieces she has. The photo found on accident, the search out of desperation, the months spent looking up every bit of information she could find… and then, the one night that drips along the back of her mind, as smooth as honey but poisoned by questions and— and something else, something heavy and weighted and too thick to be sweet.

“Nothing really,” she shrugs, rolling onto her back and blinking at the ceiling. “What were you saying anyway?”

Mya sighs, Ellie can practically _hear_ her eye roll, but the other girl starts into it again, something about a boy (because isn’t it always) a party tomorrow night, a— _come on, Ellie, please come with me—_

 

 

 

            The next morning, Ellie rolls out of bed, yawning into the early pink-tinted morning light and pulls on her running gear, her sneakers, her earbuds and heads off towards the track field.

She stretches, waves to a few other early-rising students and takes off—

Lets her mind slip away into nothing but the track and her music and her own two feet.

 

            It’s gotten warmer again, after the weird chill of the week before, and Ellie’s happy to step into the air-conditioned hallways of the school and wind her way through the building to get to her dormitory. It’s still earlier enough that the halls are empty until she reaches the main building and she smiles awkwardly at a few teachers, focusing more on the music still playing in her earbuds than anything else.

She’s barely a few steps into the main hall when a new song flips on and she happens to look up—

 _Holy shit,_ Ellie curses, her eyes going wide, breath stalling in her chest as she darts behind a pillar in the front entrance way, pressing her back against the cold stone and yanking out her earbuds like she can sink into it and disappear if she’s quiet enough.

Her heart thumps, her fingers cold, pressing white-tipped into the pillar behind her; she thinks, _no way—_

_There’s no way._

Peeking around the side of the pillar, Ellie ignores the curious look from a younger student passing by and tilts forward around the stone pillar, trying to edge her way to getting a look at the front desk—

Where a tall, dark-haired, dark-suited man is flipping through a brochure.

 _It isn’t,_ she thinks, _how would he—_

She can only see his profile, the line of his nose, the shape of his jaw, the dark of his hair brushed off his forehead…but she _knows_ without really knowing _how_ , that it’s him.

Ellie’s breath stalls in her throat. The man looks up, the angle changing his face as he smiles, wide, white, so quickly it’s something sharp, sliced between charming and cocky as he tucks the brochure her was reading into his suit jacket pocket. His hand comes out and Ellie blinks as the Dean of her school steps into her narrowed focus. She takes his hand with a smile of her own, looking up at him because he’s _tall—_

 _Holy shit,_ Ellie thinks, _how the fuck..._

She can't hear them, can't make out full sentences, can only catch the edges of their voices, his name, hers, a _welcome, nice to meet—_

His voice is steady, deep, _heavy_ in a way that pitches at an octave that seems to roll right across the hallway and into her stomach and sink inside of her.

Ellie bites her cheek, her breath uneven as she peers around the edge of stone pillar, fingers crossed, toes crossed, a _please don’t look up—_  little prayer on the tip of her tongue.

She watches them, but she only gets seconds more of watching before Dean Katherine is leading him towards her office.

Ellie curses, her heart pounding, a small part of her wants him to look up, to look back, despite how much she _doesn’t_ want him to.

It makes no sense, Ellie knows, a twisted feeling in her stomach, the same one that’s been there ever since she found a photo, a name and put the pieces of a man together into something like the shape of a father that wasn’t ever there.

She curses herself for going looking, for caring at all, but part of her, the part of her that went looking for him in the first place, _desperately_ wants him to look up.

And then he _does,_ just as he's heading into the office _;_ head turning in slow motion, his eyes—

Ellie jolts, near jumps out of her skin, her hand squeaking on the pillar, sneakers echoing as she panics, turns and fucking _runs._ There’s no thought to keeping quiet, no thought to wondering if he really saw her, sure he _did._ Sure he saw _something_ ; the swing of her ponytail, her face, her body darting like a doe out the other side of the pillar— saw his eyes and _what you can see can definitely see you._

She darts forward and down the next hall, down a staircase and over a railing, pressing back against the fire exit door, the hum of the red _Exit_ sign above her.

 _Stupid_ , she curses, _you’re such an idiot, Ellie. Why’d you go looking if you’re running now?_

She doesn’t have an answer, in the quiet of the stairwell, no footsteps echo, no one follows her, no leather shoes or dark-suited man chasing her down.

She waits, long enough her heart settles to a steady rhythm, long enough her fingers go a bit numb from pressing into the door behind, the metal handle in her spine, notching a groove.

She waits long enough that she knows she’s alone and then climbs to the third floor and takes the long way back to her dorms; her mind rolling, spinning, his face stuck in every blink.

 

He’s got dimples, she realises, just like hers.

 

 

 


	2. Part One, II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to see more, please drop a quick comment :)

 

* * *

Chapter Two:

* * *

 

 

 

 

                “Don’t forget to try to switch your shift Sunday,” Paul says, his voice tinny through the phone as Ellie pulls it away from her ear, rolling her eyes as she makes her way down the street. Knowing what comes next isn't anything she hasn’t heard before...many times. “Or you could just quit, Ellie, I told you that you didn’t need to worry—”

“I’ll get it covered, don’t worry.”

“Ellie—”

“I gotta go, okay, my shifts starting, I’ll talk to you later. Bye, Paul.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, thumbing the end call button and stuffing her phone back into the pouch of her sweater. The shop door jingles as it opens and Ellie hears her name break over the still quiet coffee shop as she steps inside.

“Hey, El!”

Ellie smiles at the two girls behind the counter and gives a little wave as she moves towards the back to drop off her things and get ready for her shift.

A part of her knows that Paul isn’t wrong, that she doesn’t have to work, not really, but she started at The Roastery’s only other location when she was fourteen, just after Paul showed up, and really, having her own money, however meager her paychecks are during the school year, means something to her.

“Hey, Andie?” she asks, as she tugs off her sweater and fixes the black _Roastery_ t-shirt beneath as it rides up. The other girl leans through the swinging door, her eyebrow raised; Ellie meets her eyes in the mirror beside the cubbies as she ties her hair up into a ponytail. “You think we could switch Sunday? My mom wants me home for—”

“Yeah,” Andie nods eagerly, “You can have my open, I’ve got plans tonight anyway, rather sleep in.”

“Great,” Ellie smiles. “I’ll change it on the schedule, then. You're the best, thanks!”

 

 

 

                This Roastery is nestled nearly right between both of Trinity’s campuses, meaning it’s often a meet-up, hang-out, study, sort of area. It was nice, Ellie thought, nicer than the transaction of a Starbucks, nicer than some of the fancier coffee shops littered throughout the city.

A laidback sort of place, where Ellie doesn’t mind spending her weekends, though during the school year her shifts have dropped drastically, after hearing much complaining from her mother and Paul. (Because God-forbid Ellie try to work and learn all at once, even though she had been doing that for nearly three years.)

Saturday shifts are generally busy and mindless, filled with coffee and baked goods; the hours pass and it’s nearly midday before she knows it. There’s a lull before the start of the lunch hour and she’s leaning against the counter, watching Andie pour coffee beans into the grinder, Tara beside her, sitting on the counter, a _Cosmo_ open in her hands.

“These sex tips are always so fucking awful,” she laughs, the pages glossy and shining as she shakes it. “I want to know who vets these _tips_.”

“I honestly don’t think they _vet_ them, Tara,” Andie laughs, passing the bag of beans to Ellie to tie off. “I think they just look for the most ridiculous ideas and roll with it.”

“Like,” Tara clears her throat, sitting straighter, grin wide as she swings her legs a little. “Hold his penis in one hand and lightly slap it with the oth—” she breaks into a laugh. “Tap it back and—”

“I can safely say that no man would want you to do that,” a deep voice says behind them, breaking into their laughter and momentary break. 

Ellie swears, all three of them jump, coffee beans scattering as Ellie fumbles with the bag in her hands.

All three girls stutter back into propriety, standing straighter, the magazine flopping hollowly onto the floor with a splat that’s just loud enough to be heard over the low music playing in the shop.

The man looks down at it, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a smirk before his gaze slowly, but surely, drifts over Ellie and up to her face as their eyes lock.

“Hello.”

Ellie feels frozen, her breath halted in her chest; the brown bag of Fall Blend beans gripped in her hands. She takes him in, pale eyes, dark hair, just long enough that it looks like it could fall over his forehead a little, if it wasn't styled in a perfectly imperfect sort of way. He's a lot taller than she thought, enough that she's looking up at him, despite being on the other side of the counter and a few feet away. Younger, too, though there's a crease near his eye, something entertained in them and the still the crooked line of his mouth.

The name comes, followed quickly by another. Nicolas Cordova, nothing more than blue ink and a blurry photo.

_Dad._

She can't tear her eyes away, he watches her, like he's waiting for her to catch up, like he's fine with just watching her right back as Ellie's brain staggers into comprehension.

Andie restarts first, stepping in front of Ellie and towards the register. “Sorry, Sir, that was— I mean, sorry, what can we get for you?”

“Actually,” he starts and Ellie comes back to reality in a rush, shoving the bag towards Tara who nearly drops it.

“I think the muffins are done,” she rushes, moving towards the back of the shop. “I’ll go get them.”

She pushes through the swinging door and ducks around the corner, squeezing her eyes shut, the blurry picture in her mind. The one she found buried in an old album at the back of her mother’s closet.

The one that’s folded and tucked in the back of her cellphone case, has been there for months, for so long the crease is threatening to turn into a tear. A jagged line that splits the blurred man from the image of her mother, smiling into the photo.

Ellie pushes a hand over her heart, feeling it thud beneath her palm, ears straining to hear anything going on in the front of the store.

But she can’t, and in the quiet, the beep of the oven makes her jump so hard she nearly shrieks, and she forces herself to move; yanking on oven mitts and pulling the muffins out of the little oven. She sets them on the wood island in the middle of small kitchen, breathing in carrot and spices.

 _What is wrong with you_ , she hisses to herself. _You went looking._

She did, she knows, found that stupid photo, that stupid name and thought—

She doesn’t even know what she thought, thinks she wasn’t thinking at all. Had a belly full of curiosities and unknowns and wanted to put a real body in the place of a name and half-blurred picture.

And now she has it, she has a real man who carries the face and the name scrawled on torn notebook paper and now—

Now she has no idea what to _do_ with any of it.

What was she going to do, take him home and be like, _Hey, Mom, look what I found.  
_

She doesn’t even know what she _wants_ from him, just knows that she saw him in the low lights of Elysium and he wasn’t at all what she expected.

She doesn’t even understand it, she sees him and her stomach twists, her heart thuds in her chest and she—

He’s just…

_Too real._

She thinks this would all be a lot easier if he didn’t look the way he did. If he looked less like he stepped out of some Armani ad and more like the fathers that she’s used to seeing, the polo, khaki, soft-bellied type. Or like Paul, who isn’t even unattractive, really, but he’s got that…soft air that lends to a professor of a certain age; sweater vests, dark rimmed glasses, soft-spoken type.

Not… _this._

Dark suits and glinting wristwatch. Dark stubble that looks cultivated and not days old. Broad, firm and—

Ellie scrubs her face, biting back a groan.

 

He isn't supposed to look like this.

(Ellie thinks, maybe he wasn't even supposed to be like this, like she half expected him to brush her off, to deny her, to say, _sorry, little girl, I have absolutely zero interest in you._ )

 

By the time she's set the muffins on the display tray and made her way back into the front of house, he's gone.

 

If Tara and Andie shoot her an odd look or two, Ellie pretends she doesn't notice.

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

 

               

                A week passes, her final year at Trinity feels somehow no different than any other, even though she knows it should.

It’s all the same, wake up at six, shower before the washrooms become a hub of early morning gossip, head down to breakfast, to classes, to lunch, to classes, to dinner, to her dorms to change and then off to the tracks to sweat off her day.

It’s mindless.

Or it should be, if Ellie could stop thinking about _him._

That’s twice now, twice since she showed up in the shifting lights of his club and bolted, that he’s sought her out. Ellie thinks she should go back and tell him to stop, should go back and tell him she made a mistake, should go back and tell him she doesn’t want to know him—

But it’s a lie.

The days pass and Ellie feels like she’s watching every face in the hallways to catch a glimpse of a man who doesn’t belong there.

 

So, by the time Friday rolls around and Mya says, there's this bar...

Ellie says _yes_ , without hesitation.

 

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

 

                “No, Paul, I already called her,” Ellie rolls her eyes, glancing at Mya across the room who stifles a laugh, looking at herself in the mirror as she drags a hand through the dark, straight length of her hair. “Yeah, I know we’re going home that weekend, you don’t need to remind me. Mm-hm, I’m just going to bed, yeah, see you tomorrow.”

“It’s kinda sweet,” Mya says once Ellie's hung up, but she laughs as soon as she finishes saying it, seeing the exasperation on Ellie’s face. “I mean he’s trying really hard.”

“It’s _annoying_ ,” Ellie huffs, dropping backwards onto her bed. “I don’t need him to be so…so like…”

“Fatherly?” Mya fills in with a little laugh.

“Ugh,” Ellie groans. “It’s stupid, they aren’t even married and I see him more than I see my mother.”

“Gotta give him props for trying, El,” Mya leans over her, head tilting, hair like a dark curtain framing her face. “Now get up and get changed and let’s be delinquents together.”

Ellie laughs, taking Mya’s hand when she holds it out, pushing to her feet and letting the other girl tug her towards their shared closet.

“What are you wearing?” Mya asks, looking at Ellie’s pyjama shorts and sweater combo.

Ellie looks down at herself, “What, this no good?”

Mya rolls her eyes, “I think I’ll dress you and save us both an argument on what constitutes suitable for party wear.”

“We’re not going to a club, it’s just a bar.”

“Same difference, El. Dress to impress, and we want to impress—”

“And not look like delinquents,” she adds as Mya glares back over her shoulder but loses it to a grin.

“ _Exactly_.”

It may only be the first few weeks of the school year, but Mya has enough clothes for both of them and they’re nearly the same size, though Mya’s got more curves than Ellie could ever dream of having, and is a good few inches taller, so most of the clothes are a bit to long, or don’t sit right. Eventually, Mya steps back after throwing Ellie a pair of her own jean shorts but a top of Mya’s with long sleeves and a dangerously low neckline that’s tighter than anything Ellie would normally wear. The other girl tilts her head, taking Ellie in from head to toe.

“This is the one. _Party_ but not _slutty_ ,” she grins at Ellie as she turns her to face the mirror and yanks at the loops of the shorts a little higher with a laugh.

Ellie takes herself in, pulling the sleeves down over her hands a bit more curling her fingers into the fabric.

“I look like a bean pole,” Ellie whines, plucking at the hem, “I think you’re supposed to have boobs for this kind of shirt…”

“You look great,” Mya says stepping out from behind her and adjusting her own full cleavage, “These just get in the way a lot, really.”

“Uh-huh,” Ellie laughs, looking at them both in the mirror. “I look twelve next to you.”

“You do _not._ You just need some make-up, and…” she nudges a pair black pumps towards Ellie. “Shoes.”

 "You're just have an answer for everything, huh?"

"Sure do," Mya smiles, turning to grab her makeup bag from the bed. "It’s like my mom always says, better to be over-dressed than unimpressed."

Ellie lifts a brow, watching Mya approach her.

“Also known as, life’s a bitch, and you never know what’s coming, be ready to hit back or get smacked,” she smiles, pulling out mascara.

Those words take Ellie's mind back to her fath— the man in the entranceway of her school a few days ago, to a week ago, in the shifting lights of a club.

 _Isn’t that true,_ she thinks.

Ellie still hasn’t mentioned anything to the other girl. She’s not sure why. _Because it was nothing,_ Ellie scolds herself. _Leave it alone. Stop thinking about him, it, him—_

Either way, she keeps it locked in her head, sealed inside of her, where it's only a little two-time, quick pulse beat of nerves and questions instead of… anything _real_. Talking about it meant rationalizing it, when she thinks she would prefer to let it die instead.

The reality is never as fascinating as the fantasy. Putting a face to the name doesn’t change anything. She’ll be fine, she’s got her mother and… _Paul._

Ellie shrugs, pulling herself back into the moment. “Alright, guru, do your thing.”

Mya grins at her, looking far too eager.

 

 

 

                Nearly forty minutes later, after a final check in the mirror, Mya pulls open their window, grinning at Ellie over her shoulder and then climbing out of it, her voice echoing back into the room when she disappears from sight.

“Let’s get this party started!”

“Shush,” Ellie hisses as she leans out the window. “If we get caught I’m disowning you.”

"Lies!" Mya laughs but goes quiet quickly. “Okay, okay, I’ll shut up.”

Ellie grabs her phone, a wallet style case that has a little strap on it to circle around her wrist, just like Mya’s, because even if they’re sneaking out, they aren’t so stupid to do it without their phone’s staying near them.

Just as she’s about to climb out the window, Ellie re-thinks her approach, peeling off her shoes and dropping them to the grass outside their dorm window, thankful they’re only on the first floor.

“ _Weak_ ,” Mya whispers as Ellie drops down, shooting the other girl a glare.

“Oh, shut up,” Ellie hisses, shoving her feet back into the wedges and looking pointedly at Mya’s shoes. “Not all of us can walk on stilts.”

Mya stifles a laugh and lifts a brow, walking backwards a few steps in her heels like the grass isn’t at all a challenge to walk on.

“Weak,” Mya whispers again before laughing quietly and turning away, Ellie falling into step beside her as they cut across the grass, staying quiet until the reach the tree lined edge of the property. Ellie’s pretty sure she sees other shadows moving in similar ways, slipping out of dorms and across the moonlit property of Trinity College.

 _Gotta love rebellion,_ she thinks.

Friday nights are the same at any school, private school or not. Teenagers are teenagers and the lure of the city around them is too strong to ignore.

Mostly, Ellie thinks, they’re all just looking for a bit of freedom.

The world seems a bit brighter, somehow, when they slip through the tree line and spill out onto the sidewalk. The street lights and buildings glowing yellow and orange and brightly fluorescent as they head down the street to O’Malley’s.

They’re not far from the university campus of Trinity, the school split into age groups, the college prepatory a little further north than the university campus. She thinks it was probably a bad judgement call, on whoever made that choice. Like teenagers wouldn’t be tempted to slip out of dorms to wander closer towards the life they’d be living in a few years. (Or a year, in Ellie and Mya’s case.)

This isn’t the first time they’ve snuck out, but it is the first time they’ve gone to a college bar, and if the rumours of the older students last year are true, the bouncers aren’t so quick to judge who passes through the doors.

Ellie is thankful, despite a little anxiety about being so close to campus, that it isn’t really that far either. A few minutes walk down the still busy streets and the cool air is pushing through cotton and bare legs quickly enough she wishes she had ignored Mya’s refusal to let her bring a jacket.

It doesn’t seem to faze Mya, who’s in less clothes than Ellie is, her skirt short, her top belly-baring. She chatters aimlessly, about the boys she knows they’ll meet, _university boys, El, which means they can’t even be that stupid, you know._

Ellie wants to debate that point, because she knows there are lots of students at Trinity who got in on the value of their parents’ dollar on not on the value of their brains.

Not that Ellie can judge, her grades are good enough, but the only reason she’s even here and with Mya is because of Paul.

When O’Malley’s comes into view, music thumping inside and out into the streetlight lit sidewalk; there’s thankfully no queue and the bouncer gives them a once over before waving them through.

Mya grins at her as she steps into the bar, a look on her face like _see, what did I tell you?_

Ellie shakes her head, shoving her forward a bit, her own laugh saying, _shut up, you were just as worried as I was._

The music and atmosphere pours over them, a thumping bass rhythm of some pop remix, the bar already alive with alcohol, music and laughter in a way that thumps into their chests and turns their nerves into bubbles in their stomach, bursting out of them as they head to the bar.

“I can’t believe he didn’t even check!”

“Shut up,” Ellie laughs, knocking her elbow into the other girl’s side. “You’re going to get us kicked out if you act like you’re surprised we’re in here.”

Mya snags them both a shot from a bartender who doesn’t even give them a second glance and they clink, swallow it back and laugh through the burn of alcohol before spilling onto the dancefloor.

 

            It’s easy to get lost in it, bodies and music and alcohol, they press together and drift apart, coming back together like magnets and it isn’t long before they’re moving back towards the bar and this time there’s a guy, brown-haired and looking like every other frat boy or college boy in the bar.

Isn’t long before he’s buying them both a round and Ellie and Mya are plied with drink and pulled back onto the dancefloor.

Isn’t long before they’re lost to a sea of colours and beats and wandering hands.

A sweaty grip that slides off Ellie’s hip, their bodies pressed together, _Scott or Scout_ or something, he had yelled into her ear, voice nearly lost beneath the music, pulling her hips into his.

Mya at her back, meeting her eyes every so often, shinier and looser as the hours pass and their bodies fill up with liquor and laughter.

There’s always a time right before going out that Ellie acts like she doesn’t want this, still some holdover from never being _that_ kind of teenager until she met Mya and Mya forced her way into Ellie’s life and dragged her into a friendship that Ellie thought was meant for stories and movies, not real life.

Mya knows that sometimes Ellie says _shouldn’t_ but really means _I’m not sure_ and just wants a little shove out of what she thinks she _should do_ and into what she _wants to do._

Mya knows, that just like her, Ellie likes to let loose, leave her mind behind and get _fucked up._

So they do, and it isn’t hard, not when there are college boys buying them drinks and not when there’s dancing and pop songs thrumming electric base beats through the floors and into their bodies.

Hours slip by and Ellie knows she’s past the point of drunk and spilling into fucked up; Scout or Scott or whatever’s mouth is sliding along her neck and his voice is in her ear. He’s saying something and Ellie blinks into he pulsing lights and tries to find Mya, thinks she sees her head, a few bodies away, and tries to pull forward towards them.

The hands on her hips pull her back and Ellie laughs, knocking them off her, she wades through the bodies and pushes closer to Mya, who grins at her only for a second, before letting her face get eaten by the guy she’s dancing with.

Scout or Scott reappears, dragging her back to the side of the dance floor, plying her with another drink Ellie only takes a sip off before she excuses herself to the bathroom.

The music goes dull, a drum of a noise when the door shuts, another girl gives her a half-smile as she glances at herself in the mirror, dragging her hands through her hair. Ellie slips into a stall, stumbles through getting her shorts down and wishes she were in flats when she almost rolls her ankle standing back up.

 _Ugh, Mya,_ she curses and struggles to rebutton her shorts. In the mirror at the sink, Ellie scrubs her hands, sticky from alcohol and sweaty from dancing and the heat of the bar. Her hair wild and crimping up in the heat, the straight lines Mya had pulled it into long since worn away.

She chases a bit of smudged mascara from underneath her eyes and pulls her hands through her hair, wincing at the tangles, ignoring the spin of the world as she tries to focus on one spot.

The music hits her like a heat-wave when she steps back out, pushing into it and through the dancefloor towards where she left Scott or Scout or...whatever.

An arm circles her waist and tugs her back into a body, Ellie laughs, pressing back into the boy behind her, letting her head fall back, eyes closing, trying to find a rhythm in the beat and the body behind her.

But the arm tightens, dragging her towards the side of the bar and Ellie might be a little too fucked up because the world spins at the movement, and she blinks her eyes open again, trying to steady herself and get her feet back under her.

But there’s a voice behind her, an order, something sliding in front of her on the bar top and then a hand pushing a drink towards her mouth. The glass slippery and cold when she tries to hold it, the hand holding it is larger than she thinks it should be, slick fingered from condensation, pushing it towards her lips.

It’s water, Ellie realises after the first icy-cold sip, nothing more.

The arm around her waist disappears and then the body behind her does too, Ellie leans against the bar, sagging a little, the room spinning enough that she has to shut her eyes. Willing the room and her body to steady, Ellie breathes deep, one hand on the slippery glass, the other digging into the sticky edge of the bar.

She doesn’t know how long she stands there before she feels a hand on her wrist, a fingertip brush that urges her to drink more water.

When she does, and finally opens her eyes again, she almost stumbles backwards but his hand grabs hold of her and keeps her upright.

It’s _him_ , Ellie realises, tall and broad and far too nicely dressed for a place like this. His watch glints on his wrist as his hand slips from her arm, moving towards a drink on the bar top, something amber coloured that he lifts it to his mouth and knocks back. His eyes stay locked on hers and Ellie feels like she’s back in the dark of his club, staring him down across the distance between them, feeling nothing but the bass beat of music thudding into the thumping of her heart.

She can’t tear her eyes away, can’t move, thinks she should move, should slip through the crowd and disappear like she did last time, because if anything is clear now, it’s that Ellie should never have gone looking.

Curiosity killed the cat, after all.

She’s stuck, caught in the weight of his eyes as he looks over her, not at all hiding the way his gaze lingers on her face, eyes moving over it like he’s trying to find something in the angles.

Whatever it is, he must find it, he leans forward, their eyes still locked like there’s some sort of silent order in the lightness of his eyes that says, _stay still._

She’s still too stuck still to move, her fingers white-tipped on the glass in her hand, feeling like if she focuses anywhere else she might be sick; like he’s the only thing she can focus on.

It’s _weird._

The whole world seems to slow as he leans closer, like the faster her heart beats the slower everything around her moves.

It’s _weird._

He leans closer, Ellie feels her breath hitch when he leans down, a hand landing on her side, a light touch that shifts her focus as his breath brushes her cheek, as his voice, a deep, rolling sound lower than the bass beats pushing through the floor, roll into her.

 _Stay here,_ he says.

And then he’s leaning away, standing straighter, Ellie looks up at him and he gives her one final long look, before turning and heading into the crowd.

 _Run,_ she thinks, _time to get Mya and leave._

But she brings the water back up to her lips and takes another sip, then another, feeling hot and dizzy and _stuck._

What was she _thinking?_ Ellie berates herself, what is she even supposed to say, _Hi, I’m your daughter, no, I don’t really have proof, or way to convince you, but here I am anyway._

 _Stupid,_ she thinks. _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

 She should’ve just been happy with _Paul_.

A hand crosses her vision and Ellie jolts, water spilling on her hand, pulling out of her self-flaggetlating thoughts and back into the reality of the over-hot, over-crowded bar.

Scott or Scout or whatever is grinning at her, handing her a shot, his own fingers slick and slippery from alcohol. He leans in and Ellie leans away from the alcohol press of his breath.

“Come on!” he grins, “To a new school year!”

It’s stupid, Ellie thinks. It’s all so fucking stupid.

She downs the shot, thoughtless, too quick, coughs through the burn and when the boy leans in, with his eyes on her lips this time, Ellie has less than a second of realisation that he’s going to kiss her before there’s a hand on the boy’s shoulder and _he’s_ there, eyes unreadable, staring the boy down.

Scout or Scott or whatever, looks between them and then scowls, pushing away from the bar and into the press of the bodies on the dancefloor.

He lifts his hand, a directional sort of _after you_ and Ellie thinks, _don’t do it, Ellie, you don’t need to—_

But she pushes away from the bar, her body too loose, the last shot sitting like a tingle of fire in the tips of her fingers and rolling in her belly in a way that makes her feel like she’s walking on stilts, or a marionette with half her strings cut.

A body moving in motion without really knowing _why._

Too curious for her own good, too wanting for more, for _anything more_ than a blurry photo and name sunk in blue pen into a torn bit of notebook paper.

She feels his hand slip into hers, like he can tell she isn’t really all there, right at that moment; his face still unreadable, his hand too warm, like it’s catching those tequila bright nerves in her fingertips and setting them on fire.

Her stomach twists, feels like she's shaking and isn’t sure why, like she should pull away and tell him to leave, she made a mistake, wrong man, wrong name, _wrong wrong wrong_ —

But he takes her hand and uses the width of his shoulders, and stupid tall length of his body to push through the moving mass of bodies on the dancefloor. It parts in front of her like he’s splitting the sea wide and offering her a path to…something.

At the front doors, the cooler air of New York at night hits her like a burst of reality, the world so much quieter in the dark of the streets, the orange glow of street lights.

Ellie tugs her hand back, stumbling a little, on the uneven sidewalk. She puts a hand out, bracing on the bar’s stone building, trying to bring herself back into reality and her own body, feels like she’s outside of it, watching herself move.

Swaying, her head swimming, she scrapes her nails into the stone, trying to ground herself. Feels like she’s floating away, everything around her lagging and delayed.

It's hard to think straight, and Ellie thinks she _definitely_ had too much to drink and _definitely_ should not have had that last shot. Her heels feels far, far too high and her ankles and knees wobble dangerously.

 _What the fuck,_ she thinks, blinking, wondering if he’s moving, or it’s the world around him.

“I—” she starts, and swallows, her stomach rolling, the world spinning.

She looks up at him, and he’s frowning, stepping closer and Ellie steps back, instinctively. He lifts his hands, like he understands that she’s—

_Something._

“Ellie,” he starts and there’s something so fucking weird about all of it that Ellie has a moment of pure unreasonable _panic_ and then—

 

Vomits.

 

 

 


	3. Part One, III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comments/suggestions are very welcome! hope you're enjoying it so far :)

* * *

Chapter Three

* * *

 

 

 

                Ellie wakes to a soft pink glow.

Blinks into the pink tinted skyline, the very _empty_ skyline—

And bolts upright.

And then regrets it immediately and drops back down on her back, a bitten back groan in her throat.

She waits until the world settles a little and then turns her head again, the pillow beneath her soft and warm as she looks back out towards the pink tinted sky.

It’s dawn, the bruise pink colour of a new day through windows Ellie’s never seen before. She doesn’t even think that _windows_ are the right word, it’s the _walls._ Floor to ceiling glass walls, showing the pink of the sky and the fading blue tint of night fading away into a new day.

It takes seconds, clunky seconds of her still too-tired mind ticking into comprehension, she is _definitely_ not in her dorms.

Not even on the same side of the _city._

Pushing to her feet, Ellie ignores the twinge of her stomach and head and looks around the room. Her legs feel unstable and it takes a few minutes to right herself, to step away from the bed and towards the windows.

It’s Central Park, the green mass below them, and the windows _,_ walls…whatever they are, obviously open onto a balcony.

 _Holy shit,_ Ellie thinks, _where the fuck am I?_

Ellie turns, looking over the large room, the smooth, dark floors, the rumpled white bedsheets covered by a thick white duvet, the dark grey walls with a few abstract art pieces offering the brightest bits of colour next to the glow of the dawn colouring everything a warm, dreamy pink glow.

It’s… a bit ridiculous, she thinks, something out of a home magazine, or a really fancy hotel, not something Ellie has ever been in before.

Glancing at the two doors to the right of her, Ellie moves towards the first, a walk-in closet filled with suits—

The night clunks in slowly, dancing, drinking, seeing Mya across the dancefloor. A dark-suited man—

_Holy shit._

When did she get this stupid?

She remembers his face in the club, his voice in her ear, his eyes looking at her and then saying her name—

He brought her home? He brought her to _his_ home?

 _Oh God,_ Ellie curses, _Mya._

Looking around, Ellie can’t see anything but wrinkled sheets, not her phone, not her shoes, just a glass of water on the side table and nothing more.

Her mind starts spinning, all the warnings girls are told from the moment they're old enough to understand.

She doesn’t know a fucking thing about him—

No, she realises, she knows he owns a club with a dubious backroom. She knows he dresses like he’s meant for a runway, looks like he’s meant for the runway.

Ellie knows he fucked her mother and then disappeared.

And shouldn’t that tell her enough?

He could be some sort of murderer, a criminal, a _pervert._

That thought twists her insides and makes her nerves flare, because she _really_ knows _nothing_ about him. Nothing more than a name and a maybe one-night stand with her mother.

_What was I thinking?_

He really could be a killer for all she knows.

Nervous now, her thoughts running wild, Ellie looks over the room, considering checking the balcony to see if there’s some other way out of here that would avoid any interaction with him.

And then she hears a sound in the hallway, footsteps getting closer, a creak in the floor and she darts towards the bed, grabbing the lamp on the side table and yanking the cord from the wall socket.

Bracing herself, Ellie notices the glass of water one more time and the memory of him pressing water into her hand, the cool slide of his fingers against her own—

But still lifts the lamp, a solid metal thing that’s as good as any baseball bat.

And then he’s there, his thick dark hair looking rumpled, like he’s been running his hand through it, wearing slacks, the collar of his shirt open, a few buttons undone, sleeves rolled over thick forearms, hands tucked in his pockets, looking at ease even as his eyebrows lift.

There’s a memory of colder air and a blurry outline of a man saying her name—

Ellie blinks, hands tightening on the metal rod of the lamps middle, her limbs shaking.

A car ride, a hand on her forehead—

Ellie blinks, remembering fragments, a gentle, low voice, saying _it’s alright,_ remembering the world shifting, being _carried—_

 _Oh God,_ she thinks, she was a fucking mess and he brought her home with him.

There’s humour in the corner of his mouth, like he’s fighting a grin. “You certainly know how to make an impression, sweetheart.”

 _Sweetheart,_ the name twists something in her stomach, though the tone he uses is some mix of fond and teasing and exasperated.

 “I—” she starts, but he takes a step closer and Ellie steps back, nervous, feeling like her arms are about to start shaking. Like she might be sick again.

He lifts his hands, palms pale and large and like white flags, stepping back again.

“Are you going to hit me or you think you could put my lamp down for a minute so we can talk?”

Ellie’s not sure what to do, or say, or how she should feel or even what to fucking think, so she just stares at him, palms sweaty.

“Why am I here?”

“You were kind of a mess, Ellie.”

"So, you, what, brought me to your place?" she narrows her eyes. "When you saw I was fucked up?"

His head tilts, hands falling to his sides, he steps further into the room and Ellie stumbles back a step, bare feet squeaking on the floor.

“Easy,” he warns, like Ellie’s a startled animal ready to take a bite.

“You go _easy_ ,” she hisses and tries not to flush with embarrassment at how little sense that made when his lips twitch in humour.

"What else was I supposed to do?" he asks, arching an eyebrow in question. “Take you back to your school? Sneak you in through the hallways and into your dorm? Because that wouldn’t look at all suspicious, hm?”

“What about Mya?”

His hands return to his pockets as he leans against the wall next to the door, his eyes flick over her once, landing on the lamp before moving back to her face, lips twitching up with humour.

“I put her in a taxi and sent her back to Trinity. She wasn’t as…impaired, as you were. Bit of an iron stomach, that one.”

Ellie eases a little at that, “You did?”

“I did,” he nods, a smirk growing. “You think you could put my lamp down now?”

Ellie hesitates, tongue darting out to wet her lips.

“I don’t know you,” Ellie says, like it’s half an apology or an excuse, as to why she’s still holding the lamp like a weapon.

“I know,” he states, simple, easy, like it should be enough. “I know you don’t.”

“You’ve been…you came to my school.”

He nods, “I did.”

“And my work.”

“I did,” his lips twitches. “Lovely coworkers, by the way.”

Ellie feels a prick of embarrassment at that, the conversation in her mind, the way he looked at her, the half-smile on his mouth while they joked about dicks.

“In my defence,” he says slowly, and straightens off the wall again, moving towards her like she’s a skittish animal who could dart away at any moment. “You came looking first…”

He eases closer, Ellie’s head tilts back, craning her neck to look up at him, to keep their eyes locked, half caught in the grey of them as he reaches around her, his hand brushing hers as he takes the lamp, pulling it out of her grip, setting it on the bed beside them.

“…and like I said, you certainly know how to make an impression.”

Ellie swallows, her stomach in a knot, he heart thudding, telling herself to step back, to move away, because she doesn’t think she can breath with him standing so close.

“I—” she starts, swallows, tears her eyes away and steps back; she sees his hand fall to his side and she wonders where it was going, if he was about to touch her but she blurts the first thing that comes to her mind.

“I think I should go,” she rushes, ignoring his incredulous look, the tilt of his brow that says, _fucking really?_

 “I have work later and I need a shower and—”

“There’s a bathroom right there,” he offers, tilting his head towards the other door that Ellie didn’t look into.

“I don’t know you,” Ellie states again, like he’s missing the _point._

He pulls in a breath and pushes it out, but his face is still slightly humoured. “I know you don’t, Ellie.”

Ellie looks towards the bathroom, the half open door to her right, back to him and then away again. He’s…intense…or something.

“There’s Tylenol under the sink, if you need it.”

 Ellie edges away, more for her own sanity than any need to use the washroom. Though a shower would be nice, she knows she isn’t having one in some stranger’s house, even if it _could_ be her father’s.

He doesn’t say anything as she moves towards it, but she feels his eyes on her as she goes.

Ellie glances back at him, her hand on the doorknob, he’s tinted that same pastel pinky-orange colour as the glow of the dawn, watching her steadily as she turns away, the door clicking closed behind her.

Letting out breath she didn’t realise she had been holding, Ellie takes in the massive bathroom, the floor to ceiling windows that seem to be follow the same style of exterior ‘wall’ as the bedroom, and can’t help but wonder if the whole apartment looks the same.

Everything is tinted a pale, pastel sort of blue and orange and it’s…a bit breathtaking, really. Ellie doesn’t bother with the light, the dawn just bright enough, the city below still sparkling. Ellie moves closer to the window, looking out of it again, looking to the sides, seeing the width and depth of the balcony that extends on either side, like it just might circle the whole apartment. She doesn’t even think it should be called a balcony, it’s massive.

She looks up, wondering if they’re on the top floor, and promptly wonders just how much it all costs, because there’s nothing she’s seen so far that would indicate that Nicolas Cordova was anything other than a man of a certain…lifestyle.

Suits, penthouse apartment over Central Park, silver wristwatch, nightclub…

She blows out a breath, because it all just feels so _unreal._

He feels _unreal._ Like she made him up in some stupid story she could’ve written as a child, one that makes her out to be a princess, loved daughter to a kind king.

That sort of story. Where Ellie was the princess and the champion and knight all in one.

_Kid’s stories._

Ellie crosses her arms, shivering, the floors cold beneath her bare feet. It feels like a fantasy, like she’s still drunk and she’ll wake up any minute, back in her small dorm bed with Mya passed out near her.

After a few more minutes of looking, feeling unreal in her own sort of disconnected way, Ellie steps away from the glass and towards the toilet.

She pees, fighting the urge to take off her underwear, feeling gross in her day-old clothes, but would feel even more weird going without anything beneath the rather short hem of her jean shorts.

Her mother’s voice pops into her head, some line she would always say about making sure you wore clean underthings, because you never knew who would meet, or who would see you. Some joke about dying in dirty underwear that was strangely morbid yet funny, all at once.  

But, she certainly wasn’t going to take her underwear off here, she thinks it would be far more embarrassing to have it fall out of her pocket, which would be her luck, than just wearing it until she could get back to campus.

While washing her hands, Ellie looks at herself in the mirror; the girl who looks back at her, messy haired, mascara smudged beneath her lash line, her cheeks flushed from sleep and embarrassment.

She winces, leaning down to splash water on her face, using toilet paper to rub off her mascara, a bit of plain, unscented soap she hopes won’t irritate her skin.

After drying her face and her hands, Ellie notices a jar of _Nivea_ beside the sink and is thankful that he’s at least a man who can take care of his skin and she won’t be forced to deal with dry skin until she gets back to her dorm.

Figuring her life can’t get any weirder, she borrows some of the thick white moisturizer.

 _Fuck it,_ she thinks, eyeing the toothpaste beside the sink and smearing some on her finger.

 _He brought me here._ Ellie figures if he’s willing to track her down and bring her home the way he did…then the saying _what’s yours is mine_ has never been more true.

Genetics, and all.

_Awkward._

Staring at herself in the mirror, Ellie drags her fingers through her hair, thankful she always keeps an elastic on her wrist and knots the whole mess up on the top of her head.

 _Great,_ she thinks, _now I really look like a teenager._

Her clothes help a bit, the plunge of the neckline showing off the small curves on her chest, but in the daylight, make-up less and shoe-less she’s feels rather young and…indecent, in the white and black of his bathroom.

And vaguely stupid.

She pushes out a breath, feeling a headache settling in her temples, a steady little rhythm, that makes her wince. Remembering what he said about Tylenol, Ellie steps back and squats in front of the cabinets, opening up the dark doors to peer inside.

There’s a little shelf of things and Ellie tries not to snoop, but her eyes flick over them quickly. A first aid kit, a bunch of tooth brushes, some pill bottles and — Ellie staggers to her feet the sight of the square, foil wrapped things in a rather _large_ box.

Her face and body burn red; skin prickling as she realises what it is.

 _Oh my god,_ she thinks. _Oh my god._

There’s something worse she thinks, knowing the man out in the hall is not only her sperm donor, not only her _father,_ not only _ridiculously attractive—_

 _Condoms!_ Ellie splashes more water on her face, cold and sharp to try to jar her mind back into order; scrubs her face like she can scrub the images out of mind, moving away from the sink like she can’t possibly stay close to that box and the sight of it in her mind.

Like she can’t stand still with the _thought_ of him being… _like that—_

Because she’d _noticed...you’d have to be blind not to,_ but it’s another thing to _admit it_.

 _XXL_ burns in her mind, _Magnums_ stamped against the pink of her eyelids. The double X burns bright gold behind her eyes and _Oh my god,_ Ellie hyperventilates into the soft white towel she grabs blindly for, breathing in her own hot air until she feels a little bit more stable.

She pulls in even breaths, forcing herself to think about nothing, absolutely _nothing;_ steals more moisturiser, sticks her mouth under the tap to swallow the pills and avoids her own eyes in the mirror.

She braces herself just before she touches the doorknob, before she opens it because as much as she wants to avoid reality, it’s—

Still standing just beside the bed, his hands in his pants pockets, his stance full of apathy and ease. Like he’s not at all uncomfortable having a strange girl in his home… in his bedroom.

Ellie flushes, tries not to, can’t stop it from happening anyway.

Ellie crosses her arms as she crosses the room, standing in front of him. He follows the movement, eyes sinking over her in a way that makes Ellie feel every inch of her five-foot-one frame.

And kinda like she’s naked too, if that’s possible.

Stupid shirt.

His eyes move over her face; Ellie tries not to squirm under the scrutiny, feeling like a bug pinned to a board, or like he’s peeling her open, trying to figure out all the pieces that make Ellie into the shape of a girl that could be his daughter.

If he believes her, that is.

“You look young,” he says and then blinks, like he hadn’t meant to say it. “I mean… younger… without make-up.”

Ellie chews her cheek, not sure what to say to that, nodding a little, because yes, she knows, she’s always had a bit of a young face.

Ellie swallows. Thinking about _young_ and him and her and all this _mess._

“How did you know where I go to school?” she blinks, frowning up at him. “How did you know my name, for that matter.”

He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s considering her. “How did you know mine?”

Ellie bites her lip, looking down, at the tips of her small toes on the dark of his floors. She doesn’t know how to say any of it, doesn’t know how to say that he’s been this abstract hole in her life for so long that now that she’s found him, Ellie isn’t sure if he wants him to fill it.

"I should go," Ellie say quietly, feeling very young and stupid and out of her depth, cursing the day she ever went looking for him in the first place. "Really, I think…I should go.”

The room has significantly lightened the past few minutes, swaddling everything in an orange-yellow glow that takes over the room around them and is spilling down the hallway she can see out the door he came through.

It’s still early, she reasons, if she gets back soon enough, maybe Mya won’t even notice she’s missing.

His eyes narrow a bit, his mouth opening, but Ellie beats him to it. “Do you know where my phone is?”

She watches his jaw tick, like he’s biting back something, his eyes leaving her and looking away and over her shoulder before he looks back to her.

He stands straighter, looking tense and slightly annoyed, like he wants to say something, but he turns away instead, heading down the hallway towards a circular, open set of stairs and down into an equally bright and equally glass-walled loft-like open space. A living room, kitchen…

Just…a massive open space, Ellie doesn’t even think one could say one section is a living room and not another, it’s sectioned off in different ways. Couches and shelves, a television, entertainment area…the kitchen all steel and glass.

“Your house is a bit ridiculous,” Ellie says, taking it all in, glancing at his shoulders, the wrinkles in the shirt between the width of his shoulder blades.

Ellie wonders if it’s the same clothes he…picked her up in last night. Or if he’s just been up and waiting for her for awhile.

Neither reason is really comforting, she realises.

“Would you like a tour?” he asks, smirking, the dark stubble on his jaw contrasting to the white of his shirt; looking at her over his shoulder as they move towards the kitchen area, his pace slowing, like he means to fall into step beside her.

Part of her thinks yes, but the other part of her sees her phone on the marble countertop and her shoes next to them, the dark wedges stark against the white counter.

It all feels very much like some sort of really awkward one night stand where nothing actually happened, and Ellie thinks again of the box beneath his sink and feels her face heat.

But he’s passing her the wallet-like case of her phone and Ellie checks her battery, sees three missed calls from Mya from the night before and at least twenty texts:

_Who is he, how do you know him, Ellie, he’s hot as fuck, WHO IS HE I WANT HIM, Ellie El Elllll serisly whoo is he. Where are u? El where r u—_

“I told your friend that I was a friend of the family,” he says, like he knows exactly what Ellie is reading. She wonders if he read them, oh god, what if he went through her phone?

“She’s a bit too trusting, your friend.” Ellie glances up at him, as he leans against the counter, arms crossed and looking down at her. She kind of wants to tell him to stop staring, but that’s just like…admitting she’s having an issue with his face.

And she doesn’t want to admit that.

At all.

“She’s…” Ellie starts, stops, not sure what to say. “Yeah, sometimes.”

“I get that you’re both almost in college and feel like—”

“Can we not do this,” Ellie interrupts, snapping her phone case closed.

Nicolas lifts a brow, “Do what?”

Ellie frowns at him, biting the inside of her cheek, pulling in a breath before letting it out. “Listen, I appreciate that you…you know, but—” she falters, swallowing the denial in her throat, that bit of her that doesn’t want to say it. “But we don’t have to do this.”

He leans forward a little, into her space, eyes grey but somehow dark with something else. “You came looking for me, remember.”

His words echo, like he’s saying something more, something like that moment before she turned tail and bolted out of his club, something anticipatory, something on the cliff-edge between staying on solid ground and—

And something else.

"I…I know I did." Ellie says and can’t bring herself to look at his eyes again. "I need to get back to campus before Mya freaks out anymore.”

“Ellie, we really—” he starts, something like exasperation, or chastising in the way he says it. It rankles her and Ellie feels her temper rise.

“No,” she grabs her shoes, darting around him, not bothering to pull them on as she heads to the door. “I really need to _go_.”

She makes it to the door before she hears him clear his throat. "How are you planning on getting home, sweetheart?"

“Don’t _call me that,_ ” Ellie bites out, then stops, breathing hard. She closes her eyes, realising she’s nowhere near school, given that it’s Central Park in his skyline. “I’ll call a cab.”

"I can take you back to campus," he offers, not acknowledging the fact that Ellie said anything about sweetheart...and the fact that not wanting to be called it is an acknowledgement of some kind all on its own really.

“Yeah,” Ellie pushes out. “In exchange for what?”

Ellie hears him, or feels him step up behind her, his arm reaching around her to the door, fingers turning the lock, then another, while Ellie steadies herself and her breathing, imagining an entire car ride back to school with him this close.

His body is hot and huge behind her, not touching, but so _there_ it makes her heart pound, when his hand touches the doorknob he says, with a low, calming voice like Ellie’s a riled animal.

“Just a talk, Ellie.”

 

 

                He leads her into an equally marble and steel and dark wood hallway, into an elevator, down a too silent ride that goes on forever; his eyes weighted and too heavy, too—

 _Stop looking at me like that,_ she thinks, bites her cheek not to say it, fingers curled around her shoes, feet too sore to force them back on.

The parking garage is dark and Ellie blinks into it, trying to see properly after the brightness of the upper floors. It smells like cement and oil, like cold, in some way. She shivers as they walk further and when Nicolas’ hand touches her shoulder, Ellie jolts, stumbling away from him.

His dark brows go up as his hands do, another call for peace, an unuttered apology. He looks at her and sets his hands to his jacket buttons; she watches him warily, but all he does is shrug off the jacket, and when he steps close and she leans back a little, his mouth quirks but his voice is easing and even.

“You’re shivering.”

There’s more than one vehicle in the garage, different colours and models, but she sees the lights flicker on one and he holds the door of an SUV open so Ellie can climb inside.

Ellie _doesn’t_ watch his hand on the wheel, doesn’t watch the shifting flex of his forearm, staring instead out of the window, watching the city go by and trying to pretend like she can’t feel him glancing at her every time his eyes leave the road.

She wants to tell him to keep his eyes on the road but… but she watches the city go by in fits and starts because there’s always some traffic of some kind, despite the time of day.

"Are you hungry?" he breaks the silence, his voice low and nearly quiet.

She is, but it’s been a low feeling in the pit of her stomach, buried and insignificant in the face of everything else.

Ellie glances over at him and his eyes dart to her, back to the road, to her, like he’s trying to gauge her reaction.

And then he’s glancing into the mirrors and pulling up to a curb with a too quick jolt of the car before Ellie can say yes or no.

She turns in her seat, looking out the window, a small café with a patio being set up, a woman writing out the daily specials in bright coloured chalk.

Ellie looks back at him, down at herself. “I’m not going out there like this,” she says, her eyes a little wide, “I look—”

 “Cute,” he interrupts, mouth quirking into a crooked smile. “It’s New York, you’re fine.”

 _Cute,_ Ellie thinks and _doesn’t_ flush, pushing out a breath and chewing a little on her lip, she looks out at the street again, the little café and the small patio tables being bathed in early morning sunshine.

She sighs, shifting in her seat, can feel him watching her as she peels off his jacket, leaning down to push her feet into her heels, wincing a little, a night of dancing on feet that don’t wear heels often was not the best idea she’s ever had.

 She sits straighter, ignoring the fact he’s watching her and yanks at plunge of the shirt, feeling her cheeks flush when it doesn’t help much at all, just makes the sleeves longer and drags the shirt down over her shoulders a bit more, which doesn’t make her feel any less aware of the skin she’s showing.  

With a sigh, she debates his jacket before pulling it back on, looking over at him, clenching her fingers into the sleeves of his jacket and hugging herself.

“Still cute,” he says and looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

Ellie scowls, pushing the door open and doing her best to not stumble in her heels; part of her knowing he’s right, this is New York, she’s sure this place has seen its fair share of hungover teenagers, one night stands and oddballs.

Those making their way home, that long walk of shame the morning after.

It’s just fucking weird to think that someone could see them and think that’s what happened, that Ellie’s—

That they—

 _Ugh_ , Ellie thinks and pouts a little at the sidewalk.

Nicolas rounds the car while Ellie’s still finding her footing; when he holds out a hand, Ellie glares at him, ignoring the offered hand.

“Don’t be stubborn,” he chides and waits, hand still out.

Ellie takes a step, winces and then takes his hand, pride be damned, her feet _hurt._

“You alright?” he asks, a little crease in his brows, but Ellie’s too focused on the heat, the size of his hand in hers to say anything.

Ellie nods, swallowing heavily, stomach in a knot of hunger and nerves.

When he pulls back her chair, his hand slips out of hers, helping her settle in. She’s thankful for his jacket, because the metal chair is cold beneath her thighs where his jacket doesn’t cover. The early morning chilly in the light breeze; Ellie shivers, hugs herself, his jacket more blanket than anything, feeling a bit like she’s swimming in it.

The waitress comes by as Nicolas settles into his chair across from her, looking nearly too big for it, she thinks, all broad-shouldered, muscles obvious, bunching beneath the white of his business shirt. His collar is still a little loose, she realises, showing the start of a muscled chest, smooth skin beneath the collar.

Ellie tears her eyes away, cursing herself, the day she ever went looking for him.

“What would you like?” he asks, his voice pulling her out of her thoughts. Ellie realises the waitress is standing beside them, pen in hand, a pad of paper waiting, obviously waiting for Ellie’s answer.

“Oh, uh, whatever you’re having,” she says, though it comes out far too much like a question.

Nicolas orders two teas and Ellie’s surprised, but he just shrugs, settling back in the chair a little more. “You don’t look like a coffee drinker.”

Ellie lifts a brow, “What’s a coffee drinker look like?”

He smirks. “Someone who isn’t so awake as you are at the crack of dawn.”

 _Oh,_ Ellie thinks, understanding his logic. “Yeah, I’m…I’ve always been an early riser.”

“Me too,” he says as his eyes meet hers, that unspoken thing between them. Ellie looks away, down at the menu, swallowing hard.

 “So…what’s good here?”

“Haven’t been here in years, no idea.”

Ellie looks back at him, but he’s still just watching her. “Can you stop that,” she bites out, feeling hungry and tired and…strung out beneath the weight of his eyes. “It’s… weird.”

“ _Weird_ ,” he says slowly, but his eyes don’t leave her. “It is that.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, about to tell him it’s more than just weird, it’s _fucking messed up—_ but he interrupts her. “How healthy are you? Vegan, vegetarian? Any allergies?”

“No, I’m— No, I just eat whatever.”

“Really?” he says, brows lifting. “Would have pegged you a vegan, you’re tiny.”

“My mom is too,” Ellie says without thinking. “It’s genetic I guess.”

It goes quiet between them and for the first time he looks a little uncomfortable, he watches her for a long, heavy moment before he says, without really anything at all on his face. “Loren Evans.”

Ellie’s heart thumbs, because he _definitely does know_ , there’s no hiding form it now. “Yeah.”

Their eyes lock and she has no idea what to say or do, because he’s her fucking father and he picked her up outside a club after she threw up, after a night of _underage drinking_ and she’s—

And he’s—

“This is _fucked_ ,” Ellie blurts, but then the waitress is coming back and the conversation, eye contact breaks.

Nicolas orders two breakfast plates, meat and eggs and fruit or something, Ellie doesn’t really care. Food is Food.

When the waitress leaves again the silence feels too heavy until he breaks the quiet again, his voice lower. “Why’d you come to the club when you did?”

Ellie bites her cheek, shrugs, but it gets lost in the weight of his jacket.

He doesn’t say anything, but he looks away, eyes leaving her face to look over the street, the cars rolling by. “You have to give me something, sweetheart.”

Ellie bites her lip, feeling the burn of her tea in the mug beneath her fingers, watching steam roll off of it, stealing looks at him across the table from beneath her lashes.

“Mum’s getting married,” she offers, failing to find anything better. “I was just… curious. I just wanted to know you exist, I guess.”

He nods, but his jaw tightens, eyes dark. “That’s the only reason you came looking? Are you satisfied now?”

“I—” Ellie swallows, “You weren’t ever there!”

“I didn’t know about you, Ellie,” he looks angry for a moment and then sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever you want.”

“I—” Ellie stutters, _whatever I want? That’s it?_ “I— I didn’t know about you either.”

She has no idea why she’s says it, just knows that he looks genuinely irritated, _angry,_ even for the first time since she met him.

The waitress returns, just as his mouth opens and he turns it into a wide, charming smile that makes the woman blush and stumble through her _you’re welcome._

Ellie scowls at her back as the woman heads back inside, looking down at the plate of food, feeling her stomach growling and turning in hunger and irritation until he says again, his voice lower, a little rough, charm dropped into something curious and frustrated all at once.

“Your mother never told you anything?”

“No, just that you were both young and that she didn’t even know where you were. I thought she meant you left.”

“Well, I didn’t,” he says firmly, eyes dark and heavy on her face. “I didn’t even remember your mother until I went looking for you.”

Ellie startles at that, the reminder that for all Ellie made the first move, he’s the one who tracked her down. He’s the reason they’re even here now.

It’s…she isn’t sure what to make of it, a twisted feeling in her gut, half pleasure and half nerves.

“How— I mean _why_?” Ellie stutters, blinking at him. “Why did you— I mean I have no proof.”

He looks away, chest shifting as he pulls in a breath and then lets it out, slowly. “You show up in my club looking— you show up, my bouncer says _kid_ and then you disappear, Ellie. Of course I came looking, if only to know whether or not is was true.”

“And you’re what, _satisfied_ now?” she throws his words back at him. “I cold still be lying, maybe I’m just out for your money, huh?”

His jaw tenses, the breakfast forgotten as his eyes narrow. “You’re not. Unfortunately.”

_Unfortunately._

Ellie sneers, trying to ignore the sting, the lancing blow that one word sends through her chest. “Fuck you.”

“That’s _not_ what I meant,” he warns, something dangerous in his eyes. “Stop being a brat.”

Ellie bites her tongue, grabbing her fork and stabbing her eggs. Her anger pitching through her. _Fuck him,_ she thinks, _fuck this whole thing._

“Yeah, whatever.” She feels stupid and childish for saying it, for bothering to be bothered at all. Telling herself she had no expectations, that he didn’t even have to come looking at all.

Then why did he, she thinks, why did he bother, if it was all so _unfortunate._

“Ellie…” he starts, but she stabs her food, chewing angrily and ignores him.

They eat in an awkward silence, Ellie not really tasting anything, just wanting to eat and go and forget this ever happened; ignoring the weight of his eyes and the irritation she can feel in the way he watches her.

     

            

 

              By the time he’s pulling up to the backside of Trinity campus, Ellie isn’t sure if she wants to scream or cry.

 _So much for that_ , she thinks. Because like _fuck_ she’s ever asking him _anything._

 _Stupid idiot,_ she tells herself. _Why’d you ever go looking._

“You need to stop here,” she bites out. “I snuck out, I need to sneak back in.”

“Fucking really?” he curses and pulls over hard enough to make a car honk behind him. Ellie reaches for the handle, but he reaches over her and holds the door shut. “Wait.”

Ellie shoves at the door, at his arm. Tears burning in her eyes and heat in her throat.

 _Unfortunately,_ her mind screams, his voice echoing. Unfortunate that she wasn’t lying about being his kid? That she is his kid? Unfortunately _what_?

“Stop it, Ellie. Turn around.”

“No, fuck you.” Her voice warbles, but then his hand is on her arm and it’s tugging her back, rough and demanding and he’s _strong,_ muscles beneath his shirt all iron hot as he pulls her across the seat like it’s nothing at all. Like she’s a ragdoll—

Ellie feels a bit like she really is one because she goes weak, even while she shoves at his grip, a feeble attempt at distance, at the _fuck off_ breaking out of her throat.

He overpowers her easily, tugs her into his chest, folds her into his lap, and as soon as his arms fold around her, his grip tight, holding her still and caught in his arms—

Ellie sobs, it cracks out of her chest, and she doesn’t even know _why_ she’s crying, just that she’s hurt from that one word, reeling from everything that happened since the night before, since weeks ago when she saw him that first time.

She’s just—

It builds up inside of her and he’s warm and _heavy_ in a way that’s a comfort she doesn’t think she’s ever felt, his arms around her, his hands stroking through her hair, a sound in his chest like he’s saying something, a rolling rumble of words she can’t focus on as she cries.

 

She doesn’t know how long she cries for, only that when she stutters to a stop, chest hitching, heart slowing but still erratic, she feels—

Exhausted.

She feels his hands cup her head, pulling her face away from his neck, feels the heat in her cheeks, the blotchy mess of her face, as his hands move to cup her cheeks, thumbs brushing along her cheeks.

The way he looks at her makes her lip wobble and something she can’t name passes over his face, as his eyes look over her, something searching, something pained as he smooths her hair back, thumbs catching the slow to gather, slow to drop, heat of her tears.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says roughly, chest deep in a way that rolls through her. “You're killing me here.”

Ellie doesn’t know what he means, so she leans forward, tucking her head back into his neck and lets him hold her again.

A momentary weakness, a moment, she tells herself. Just one.

 

                When she finally feels normal enough to move, Nicolas is silent beneath her, his hand stroking over her back, through her hair, all slow and warm and comforting.

“I need to go,” she mumbles, “I still need to sneak in.”

He huffs a laugh, a lazy sound. “Can I sign you in?”

She shakes her head, the idea does something funny to her stomach, the idea of him singing her in like a parent.

She unknots her fingers from their clench in the fabric of his shirt on his chest, looking at the wrinkles she left, the wet mark on his collar. Feeling embarrassed and stupid, Ellie shakes her head again. “No, you’re not…like _legally_ , you know?”

He’s quiet for another moment, chest moving in a deep sigh before his mouth touches the top of her head, a dry press of lips, of comfort.

 

Or something like it.

 

 

 

 


	4. Part One, IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I enjoy a bit of slow burn, hopefully, this doesn't annoy anyone, I swear things will pick up soon. Sorry this took so long, the end was giving me a hard time, but it's a fair bit longer than the previous chapters! Hope you enjoy!

 

* * *

Chapter IV

* * *

 

 

 

                Ellie eyes the lump of blankets that Mya has buried herself beneath as she strips out of her day-old clothes; realising too late that she still has Nicolas’ jacket wrapped around her.

She stares at it while she changes, a black swatch on the baby blue of her bedspread. It lies harmless and no different than any other bit of clothing that’s ever ended up on her bed, but somehow…somehow it’s…

 _Something_.

Grabbing her toiletry bag and a towel, Ellie eyes the Mya-lump one more time before heading towards the girls’ washrooms.

The hot water is a welcome distraction, peeling away the edges of the alcohol-headache lingering in her temples, the one exacerbated by… _him, and_  worse, crying.

_Crying on him._

Ellie winces, turning her face into the hot water, hoping it can drown out her thoughts, or maybe just drown her for good measure. _How embarrassing_ , she thinks, crying on him like some sort of child—

She doesn’t even know why she was crying, really. Just that one minute she was angry, so angry and frustrated at the man beside her, at her own mother, at _herself…_ and it boiled up inside, rolling around, trying to climb out her throat.

And then it did, just not the way she wanted it to. Would rather have yelled at him, she thinks. Would rather have fought with him than cried.

Cried _on him_ , no less.

 _Ugh,_ Ellie thinks, letting the water beat against her skin. Her mind rolling images of his face, his chest beneath hers, the heat and the width of his hands, his heartbeat thudding in time with hers and—

_Ugh._

There is something very wrong with her, she thinks. Very, Very wrong.

 

 

 

                “If you fucked him I will both hate you and love you forever,” the lump on the bed says, muffled and drowsy. “Tell me all the dirty details, you lucky bitch.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, feeling her face heat even as she denies it. “It’s not like that.”

Mya flops over, her makeup smudged beneath her eyes, hair a frizzy mass of dark curls. “Who is he?”

  “He’s… a friend of my mom’s,” she lies, pulling her towel off her head and rubbing her hair with it, avoiding Mya’s narrow-eyed glare.

“Lies.”

“I am not.”

“I know that face,” Mya mumbles beneath the folds of her blanket pulled over her chin. “That’s embarrassed Ellie, that’s Ellie who said she didn’t think Professor Langley was hot, that’s Ellie who—”

“Alright!” Ellie laughs and chucks her towel at Mya’s face. “Shut up.”

“This is the smell of Ellie showering off her one-night stand.”

“Oh my God, I _hate_ you,” Ellie laughs, her face heating, dropping onto her bed. “Nothing happened. I swear. It’s not like that. He’s…it’s just not like that.”

“Well that’s dull and disappointing,” Mya says, the towel landing on the floor between their beds. “He looks like someone that it should be _like that_ with if you know what I mean.”

Ellie thinks, _yes_ , before she can stop the thought, then groans and turns, dropping her face into her pillow. “He’s like…he’s…”

_My father._

“Hot?”

_Yes._

Ellie winces away from that thought. “…it’s just not like that.”

“Well, if you could pass his number along, I’d like to make him my one night—”

Ellie chucks her pillow at the other girl’s face, both of them falling into laughter.

 

 

 

  

* * *

             

 

 

 

               Sunday morning finds Ellie yawning and barely one hour into her shift at The Roastery.

Her phone vibrates in the pocket of her apron while she dumps the muffin ingredients in the mixer. It takes her a minute of flour-handed fumbling to get it out of her pocket and another moment when she sees a name flash across the screen.

_Nico._

_Nico?_ Ellie frowns at it and her thumb lingers over ignore but moves to accept at the last second.

 “Hello.”

 _Holy shit,_ she thinks. How _did he—_

His voice is steady and deep and Ellie feels it in her toes like some vibrating chord strung along her bones.

“Nico?” she blurts, flicking on the mixer watching the ingredients churn.

“No one calls me Nicolas,” he chuckles and Ellie feels it in her stomach. “Well, unless I’m in trouble.”

“Oh,” she exhales, swallows, not sure what to say and blurting the first thing that comes to mind. “I still have your jacket.”

There’s a pause, a low breath like he stifled a laugh. “You can keep the jacket, sweetheart. It looked better on you.”

 _No, it didn’t._ She feels her face warm, which is stupid, she thinks, how easily she feels…feels off-kilter around him.

There’s another pause like he’s waiting for her to say something, but when she doesn’t, he speaks again, slowly, like he’s testing the waters. “How are you feeling?”

“I…” Ellie feels her heart picking up a little and doesn’t really understand why; spares a glance through the round window hole on the swinging door, seeing her co-workers as they serve and move around behind the counter of the café. “I’m okay, I’m at work.”

Another silence. Ellie’s ears strain, but there’s no noise through the line, just her own pulse-beat in her ears. She looks through the window, chewing on her lip, thinking she should hang up, about to hang up, really, because she’s at _work,_ she did say—

“What time are you finished?”

“Finished?” Ellie frowns, catching the edges of a laugh out front, Andie, her head tilting back at something Tara is saying.

She feels weirdly disconnected from it, listening to his voice in her ear, her arm curled around her stomach, the other gripping the phone too tightly. She feels like she’s sneaking around… like she’s doing something _wrong._

But she hasn’t even done anything.

“Your shift,” he clarifies, “What time do you get off work?”

“Four,” she blurts, not thinking about the why of him wanting to know.

“I’ll pick you up.”

“I walk to work,” Ellie frowns. “It’s like ten minutes from campus.”

There’s a shift, like he’s adjusting the phone, humour in his voice. “I know, I wasn’t going to take you back to your school, sweetheart.”

 _Oh_ , Ellie thinks. And then, _what._ But before she can get anything out, his voice is in her ear again.

“I’d like to get to know you, Ellie. In whatever way you’ll let me.”

“What if I…what if I don’t want you to?”

The line goes quiet again, like he's debating her words. “How about this, I’ll be there at four, if you’re interested, even a little, get in the car. If you don’t want to…”

A pause stretches, Ellie waits, her eyes watching as Andie approaches the door, her hand tightens on the phone.

“…I’ll leave you alone.”

Ellie wants to say _,_ _like you left me alone for the last seventeen years?_

And, like he can read her thoughts, he says, “Believe me, Ellie, this would all be a lot easier if I had known about you earlier. But I didn’t. So I’m going to be outside your work at four and if you—”

“Okay,” Ellie blurts. “I— okay.”

“Okay, sweetheart. See you at four.”

Ellie nods at nothing, pulling the phone away from her ear and thumbing the _end_ button.

 _Okay,_ she thinks.

 

 

                It’s barely one and Ellie is sticky-handed from whipped cream and caramel sauce, her hair fraying out of its ponytail and is pretty sure there’s flour or maybe more whipped cream on her cheek.

The lunch rush clears and she sees Tara slouch against the counter as the last of the line-up heads out the door, leaving only a few already served people in the tables around the café.

Ellie barely grabs the towel before it hits her in the face.

“You’ve got something on your cheek,” Caleb says, humour pulling up one side of his mouth. Ellie swipes it over her cheek and Caleb laughs, grabbing it back and rubbing it over her other one, just along her cheekbone.

“Thanks,” Ellie mumbles as his hand drops away and he shrugs, moving towards the sink to wash it out.

“No worries, tried to get to you earlier but…” he shrugs again.

Ellie nods, sending a glare to Tara who’s giggling around the straw she has in her mouth. “Thanks for nothing.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you can’t control the frother.”

“I think it was flour,” Caleb says, wringing out the towel and hanging it over the faucet.

“Not my fault you can’t control the mixer,” she amends with another giggle until Andie slaps her arm.

“You’re one to talk, what happened the first time you tried to use that old thing?”

Tara's smile drops and then grows wide as they all laugh at the memory of the kitchen after Tara’s _only_ attempt to bake.

She looks at her nails, French-tipped and sharp. “I told you,” she sniffs. “These are not baking hands.”

“How about coffee pouring hands,” Caleb says, shoving a carafe at her. “Go see if anyone wants to sample the Autumn Ambrosia blend.”

Tara pushes out her bottom lip, pulling the half-chewed straw out of her mouth. “But—”

“Go,” he tilts his head and then glances at Ellie as Tara huffs and takes the carafe, grabbing a stack of small sample cups. “You can take five if you want to clean up.”

Ellie nods, giving him a quick smile and pushing through the swinging door and to the small staff bathroom at the back of the café.

In the bathroom, she glances at herself in the mirror and grimaces. Pumps soap into her hand and scrubs her hands and forearms, feeling sticky caramel and pumpkin spices in more than a few places.

 _Ugh,_ she thinks, _I’m a mess._

Drying her hands, Ellie pulls out her ponytail, running her fingers through her hair to fix it; there’s the lingering smell of coffee and baked goods every time she moves and she looks over herself in the mirror while wrapping the elastic around her hair. Her black leggings are spotted with flour, her shirt, not much better, white splotches along the right side of her chest she thinks are more splatter from the frother.

Knotting her hair on her head, Ellie wipes her hands over herself, but it’s useless.

Then she remembers that _he’s_ coming to pick her up at four, right after her shift, and he’ll see her like _this._

Not that it matters, Ellie tells herself, she just doesn’t want to…she just wants to shower and change before he…before they…

Actually, she doesn’t even know what they’re doing. He’d only said he was picking her up.

Ellie pulls out her phone and before she can second guess herself, scrolls to his name in her contacts. 

She thinks she should be angrier that he put his number in her phone yesterday morning when Ellie was... passed out in his bed after a night of underage drinking in which he...

Took care of her, apparently.

She guesses she can give him the benefit of the doubt in this case.

The new contact isn't anything more than a name and a number. But it still catches her eyes.

_Nico._

“Nico,” she says, under her breath, her tongue touching the back of her teeth, a quick, easy name for a man who looks… the way he does.

There’s another name on her tongue, but she swallows it down because it’s never really applied to anyone and she still doesn’t even know if she wants it to apply to him at all.

Her insides twist a little at that thought, so she swipes his name and types out a message before she can explore her own thoughts anymore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _E: I’d like to shower—_

_Nope_ , she says out loud, popping the _p._ Deleting that, she starts again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _E: I want to change after work, I’ll meet you somewhere instead?_

Ellie leans against the wall, waiting, glancing at the time on her screen by, a minute, two, knowing she has to get back to work; she’s about to pocket her phone when it pings, his message popping up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _N: I’ll pick you up where I dropped you off. Five okay?_
> 
> _E: You don’t need to—_

Another message appears before she finishes typing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _N: Sneak out, then I don’t have to bring you back for curfew._

Ellie frowns at the screen, wondering how he knows about curfew. And then remembers him heading into the Headmistresses’ office. She frowns, wondering what he could possibly have asked her if that’s how he knows who Ellie’s mother is, who she is…

She pushes it away, for now, thinking she can ask him later.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _E: You’re making me a delinquent._
> 
> _N: I think you already are one._

Ellie laughs, a smile breaking out, biting her lip when his next text pops up a moment later.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _N: I’ll keep you safe. Promise._

Ellie swallows, her fingers hesitating.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _E: Okay. Five._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

                She’s late leaving, of course, because, _why not_. Late getting back to her dorm. Late rushing through a shower, willing her hair to dry faster as she yanks on the first pair of jeans she can find which is a bad idea with damp skin; she ends up shoving her foot through one of the rips in the denim. Annoyed, stumbling, and glancing at the time, she yanks them off and chucks them onto the bed and grabs another pair of leggings instead.

It’s still a struggle, but she manages it with only a little bit of cursing, glad Mya isn’t in the room and sparing a second to text her that she’d be going out for dinner, _family thing_ , she types, lies, adding on a kiss and a _sorry_ after the message.

It’s only after she pulls on a loose pink shirt and looks at herself in the mirror, that she curses again, stumbling through yanking off her leggings and grabbing a dark, floral-printed romper of she knows at least looks like she put in some effort.

The leggings made it look like she wasn’t even _trying._

Not that she’s _trying_ , she just… _First impressions,_ Mya says in her head, and even though she isn’t trying to impress him, exactly…he’s always so…immaculate.

Eye-catching.

Although it’s not really a first impression, since his first impression of her included the back of her head as Ellie ran away. Actually, the first three impressions.

Which isn’t _at all_ embarrassing.

Running her hands through her hair and twisting it up into a ponytail she catches a glimpse of his black jacket on her bed. And then the time.

 _Shit,_ she curses, dropping her hair and telling herself that it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t care, even as she swipes mascara over her lashes. Not bothering with anything else. No time to bother with anything else.

4:58 the clock on her bedside table glows.

She glances at his black jacket again, her teeth in her lip, a moment of hesitation between giving it back or.... but she moves to the back of her door instead, grabbing her jean jacket and kicking her feet into flats.

Not bothering to glance at the time again, knowing it’s up, Ellie shoves the window open and checks for anyone hanging around the back field before she jumps out and all but runs across the field, jean jacket in hand.

 

And then she sees him.

 

Sees a sleek black car idling at the curb and the tall, dark-haired man leaning against it, arms crossed, a crooked, half-smile on his face, watching Ellie as she slows to a jog and then to a walk, her cheeks pink.

She can’t really help eyeing him; he’s in a dark-grey suit, a matching vest with a lighter shade of grey shirt beneath a dark tie. Ellie thinks he literally looks like something out of an ad on a billboard, or a glossy magazine spread, with a model beside him, hanging off his arm.

 _Definitely_ does not fit the backdrop of her campus. Especially not leaning against that car.

“Sorry,” she grimaces, wondering if he was waiting long. “I left work late.”

He shakes his head, smile broadening and glancing at the watch on his wrist. “Four fifty-nine, you’re good.”

Ellie laughs and sees his gaze flick over her before he straightens off the car, setting his hand to the car door and holding it open for her. Ellie slips in, the interior dark from tinted windows, the leather seats cool beneath her, but the air blowing a little warmer from the vents.

When Nicolas climbs in on the other side his eyes find her instantly, watching as she buckles in, when he notices her little shiver he reaches for the dash, pressing the seat warmer on and letting Ellie melt into it.

She laughs a little, settling heavier into the seat, putting a hand between her thighs to feel the warmth coming up from the seat. Nicolas—

 _Nico,_ she reminds herself, watches her, his hand on the gearshift, but when she looks up at him he turns away, a tick in his jaw, eyes on the road as pulls out into traffic.

“You look nice,” he says, but doesn’t look at her, merging into another lane, the traffic slow at five. She thinks they probably should have re-thought the pickup time. Walking might actually be faster.

“Thanks,” Ellie says, holding her jacket in her lap and enjoying the heat of the seat beneath her. “You, uh, you do too.”

His mouth twitches up, just a little, and he does pull his eyes away from the road, just for a second, to look at her. “Are you hungry?”

“You don’t have to feed me all the time,” she says, “I know I live on a campus, but the food there isn’t actually that bad.”

“I didn’t think it was.” His lips twitch again and his eyes shift over her. “I am vaguely concerned you didn’t drink enough milk growing up, though.”

“What,” Ellie laughs, a little breathless and confused.

“You’re so small,” he chuckles. “I don’t get where my genes went.”

He isn’t wrong, Ellie wonders the same now because he’s a bit closer to ridiculously tall while she’s lingering somewhere near Smurf size.

“Mum is too, though,” Ellie shrugs. “Whole family really, my grandma is like…smaller than I am.”

“You see them a lot?”

“My family?” Ellie watches his hand on the gear shift, wondering what kind of car it is, how much it is because it feels like something that cost more than her tuition. “We’re… pretty close. We lived with my grandma growing up, you know, since my mom was—”

Ellie trails off, _a teen mom,_ she leaves unsaid. _Knocked up with your kid, with me, younger than I am now._

He nods, but his eyes stay on the road. “Still, you don’t look much like me.”

Ellie wonders if he’s trying to say he doesn’t really believe her, if he’s doubting what she claims, because really, she doesn’t have any proof, just a photo and a name.

“We have the same…” she hesitates, feeling like she’s admitting something she shouldn’t. “We have the same dimples.”

“I did notice that,” he glances at her again, that dimple gracing his cheek, nearly identical to hers but set into a different jawline. Ellie grins on reflex, a little laugh bubbling out of her. It all feels so _ridiculous._

Seventeen and discussing shared dimples with a man she thought she’d never meet or _want_ to meet, really.

Ellie fiddles with a button on her jacket, folded in her lap, fidgeting as the car goes quiet again and Ellie steals glances at him. The ease in which he takes up space, the lazy, confident way he drives; his hands on the wheel and gear shift.

“You never answered my question.”

Ellie startles a little, realising she was lost in her head. Glancing at him to find him looking at her when traffic stalls again, a crooked tilt to his mouth that makes her feel like he knows exactly what she was looking at. When she frowns, lost at his question, he repeats himself.

 "Are you hungry?”

Ellie shrugs. “I’m not _not_ hungry.”

“What do you feel like?” he tries again, his eyes shifting from the road to her and back again.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re helpful,” he huffs. “What if I chose something you hate?”

Ellie shrugs again, even though she knows he can’t see it, his eyes back to the road. Fiddling with her jacket, plucking at the button, she hesitates and then says: “I’m pretty open to anything. Not a big fan of fish though.”

“There goes Red Lobster,” he drawls.

“Like you’ve ever been to _Red Lobster,”_ she laughs, shifting in her seat to face him a little better. “You look like you eat caviar and have a personal chef who catches fresh lobster for your dinner.”

 “Says the girl in Trinity.”

Okay, Ellie thinks, he has a valid point there.  “I’m actually only there because of Paul…uh, my soon to be stepdad, I guess.”

“Soon to be stepdad?” Nico glances at her, dark brows drawing together, his hand tightening on the gearshift.

Ellie frowns a little, wondering why he looked…annoyed. “I told you my mom is getting remarried. Paul—”

“I know about Paul,” he frowns. “I didn’t think you—” He cuts off, and she watches him shift gears, watches the tic in his jaw as he turns down another street, closer and closer to Central Park.

 Ellie thinks they’re going a bit too fast for the street; wondering why he’s annoyed, wonders why the idea of Paul… _oh,_ Ellie thinks, and wonders if he’s curious about her mother. About what he…left. Or maybe never really had, she isn’t really sure on that one yet.

Her stomach turns a bit sour at that thought, imagining him and her _mother._

“I told you, I said she was getting married. They’re happy together, you know.” Ellie says it meanly, caught on the idea that he’s annoyed that her mother is taken, that he’s hoping to slip into a role with her and another with her mother…make it _official._

“They’ve been together for a few years now. He was the one that got me into Trinity. I thought he just wanted me out of the house, you know, at first, but he’s actually a teacher here.”

Ellie watches his hand tighten on the gearshift. “Is he.”

“Yeah, Lit teacher,” she says watching his profile, unsure why he looks—

“He treat you okay?”

Ellie frowns at the question because Paul is just _Paul._ He’s _there._

“He’s been there,” she says irritated, not knowing what to say to him really; catching sight of the tensing of Nicolas’ jaw, his hand flexing as he shifts gears “So, you know…there’s that.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel guilty, Ellie?” he says lowly, eyes meeting hers, staying off the road long enough she feels her nerves prick. “Or jealous?”

Ellie bites her cheek, angry, a little ball of bitterness in her stomach; she can’t bite back her irritation.

“It’s not supposed to make you anything, actually,” she grinds out. “This was a mistake, take me back to school.”

Nico snorts, a rush of air, but doesn’t turn the care around or stop at all.

“I said take me back,” Ellie demands. “I don’t want—”

“No.”

“Take me—”

“ _No_ ,” he says again, and then they’re pulling into an underground lot, the same one Ellie remembers from yesterday morning.

He brought her back to his loft, she realises.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Ellie bites out, crossing her arms and sinking into her seat, not even caring how petulant it looks.

The underground lot seems a lot darker after the street side daylight, the car even darker with the tinted windows making it harder to see. The car cuts off and eases into mechanical ticks as he yanks the keys out, turning to face her in the seat.

She becomes obscenely aware of the fact she does not know him, not really, that she’s in a car with a stranger, a man twice her size…regardless of who he is, she’s acutely aware she doesn’t really know him.

Which makes her feel a bit guilty because he hasn’t been anything but nice to her, even after dealing with her drunken misadventure Friday night. But she’s annoyed at him and at herself for being annoyed at all, so she glares at him in the dark as her eyes adjust to the shadows.

“We’re going to talk, Ellie, I don’t care if that’s in my car or my apartment, but we’re going to have a nice long talk about all of this.”

“I have nothing to say to you, asshole,” Ellie glares. The shadows in the low, orange-y light of the garage make the SUV dark and shadowy, make his face dark and shadowed. She doesn’t know what to make of him, his face, the way he turns to face her directly.

“Then why’d you come looking, hm?” he says slowly. “If you don’t want to say anything, don’t want to talk, don’t want to know me, Ellie. Why’d you come looking for me?”

“My mother is happy with Paul,” she sneers, “I’m not going to—”

She watches a frown shift over his face, a flicker of confusion that settles into irritation. “I have no fucking interest in your mother, Ellie.”

Surprised by his language and the way he says it, Ellie bites her tongue; his words hot and hard, and honest in a way she’s…annoyed by? _Relieved by?_

Refusing to look away from the weight of his gaze or flinch back from the heat of him when he reaches across her body and yanks on the door handle and then her seatbelt. “Get out.”

Ellie does, stumbling to her feet and slamming the car door shut behind her.

His door slams, echoing in the underground parking lot, when he rounds the vehicle, face dark, his hand comes out to grab her arm and Ellie yanks it back, no idea why she’s so angry, just that she is.

“You’ve got an attitude,” he growls grabbing her arm again and hauling her along the parking garage to the elevator.

“Yeah, what are you gonna do, _Dad,_ ground me,” she spits tugging back on his arm, but all he does is pull her harder, into the elevator with a little shove. “Spank me?”

The doors slide shut behind him, the words fill the silence, sit between them like a strung chord as the elevator starts to move. Nicolas looks down at her, his face dark, taking two, even strides towards her, bracing his arms on either side of her head and leaning down.

Face to face, Ellie knows she’s being rude, that he’s right, but… there’s something about him that riles her.

She’s never gotten this angry so quickly, not with anyone, but there’s something…it’s happened twice with him now and she doesn’t really know why.

That’s a lie. She’s kind of afraid she does know.

 “Do you want me to spank you, sweetheart?” There’s something dangerous, rough, dark in the way he says it, in the dark of his eyes, shadows cast from the lights above.

Ellie glares, jaw tight, something hot spilling through her body, making her aware of every inch of her body beneath the angle of his.

The elevator dings in the strung-tense, too quiet space between them, the _too little_ space between them as the doors glide open.

He hesitates, still leaning over her, face to his before he straightens, arms falling to his sides and standing straighter; she watches his jaw shift, like he scraping his tongue over his teeth, biting back words.

“Maybe you did get something more from me after all.” He turns away, heading into the hallway, leaving Ellie with her back pressed tight against the wall of the elevator. A choice, she realises, to stay or go.

The doors ding.

Ellie darts between them before they close.

“What did you mean you know about Paul?” Ellie questions, a bubble of something in her stomach as she watches him unlock the door of his loft.

“You think you’re the only one that can work Google?”  His brow lifts, arched in question.

Ellie makes a face, his tone something stuck between condescending and teasing. “Why’d you look him up?”

He’s holding the door open from her, head tilting in a silent command, a _get inside_ , in the tilt of it.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

She scowls but moves in, the apartment still lit by the late sun, all deep yellow with an evening glow.

She only makes it a few steps into the loft before there are hands on her waist and she’s being picked up. She doesn’t even get a chance to struggle, Nicolas picks her up with an ease that steals her breath, his hands tight on her hips, stealing her thoughts for seconds before she finds herself on the kitchen island, the marble cool beneath on her thighs, beneath the cotton of her romper.

He braces his hands on either side of her, like he’s making sure she pays attention to him. Which is unneeded, Ellie thinks, because he’s a step away from being _between_ her legs as he leans forward a little, his shoulders broad, his face close enough that Ellie can see that his eyes are something like grey-blue, shades of the colour flecking through them. 

Ellie’s eyes are the same colour too, she realises.

“Let’s get one thing clear, Ellie,” Nico starts, his voice steady and deep; a voice you listen too, a voice that says he’s used to being heard. “I have no interest in your mother. None. I don’t fucking care who she’s marrying. Who she's been with. Where she’s been for the last seventeen years.”

Ellie feels her spine straighten, her mouth opens but he quells her with a look.

“The only person I have any interest in is _you_.”

Ellie swallows, her tongue darting out, she watches his gaze flick down and it makes her pulse pickup to some two-timed rhythm.

“You’re kind of an asshole,” she forces out. Watching his eyes shift away, moving over her face like he’s looking for something in the angles.

He huffs a breath, something humoured and disbelieving; standing straighter, his thumb brushes her thigh, just near the hem of her romper as he steps away. “And you have an attitude way too big for someone your size.”

Ellie scowls, twisting on the counter to watch him as he heads towards a drawer beneath the counter near the fridge.

“What kind of pizza do you like?”

The abrupt change of tone in his voice makes her stumble to catch up, blinking at him while he pulls out take-out menus.

In the quiet, one of her flats, dangling off her foot, falling to the floor with a hollow plop.  
  
“ _Pizza_?” she parrots, incredulous.

Nico looks at her, on the other side of the counter, lifting a brow like it’s all so obvious. “For dinner.”

Ellie blinks, “I’m not— I’m not picky.”

He narrows his eyes a little, “Sardines then.”

Ellie scowls at him, refusing to laugh. “Not funny.”

A smirk crosses his lips, as he finds a takeout menu with an Italian name on the front. “So you say.”

She watches him pull out his phone from his pocket and easing into a lean against the counter, eyes flicking over the menu before he looks back at her as he speaks into it.

His voice is even, and steady as he orders but he slips into Italian after a moment and it leaves Ellie reeling after he hangs up.

“You speak _Italian_ ,” she asks, though it comes out more of a statement. Nico nods, moving back around the counter as he shrugs off his suit jacket, shoulders shifting beneath his clothes…and Ellie can’t, she can’t stop herself from watching.

“I do,” he says, a touch of humour in his voice, as he sets his hands to his vest, pulling that off as well. Though Ellie thinks, he looks no less untouchable and… _impressive_ , in just his shirt and tie.

There’s a smirk on his mouth and Ellie tears her eyes away, feeling heat flush through her cheeks at being caught so obviously watching. “I’ll teach you, if you want.”

Ellie’s body pricks warmer by degrees, glancing up as he works off his tie. “I—”

He chuckles, some low rolling laugh, and he steps closer, closer than before even. Right up to her knees, the hardness of his stomach, hot through the thin of his shirt.

“I can teach you a lot of things, Ellie.” He loops his tie around her neck, letting it fall from his hands as he steps away again, heading towards a darker hallway she didn’t notice the last time she was here.

Ellie thinks she must be beet red, she hops off the counter, thinking she should really leave, she should, definitely go. Her mind and body are at odds trying to categorise Nicolas Cordova into a role he’s never been around to fill and the one her eyes and body want him to be in. Two categories that could literally not get more different. Two categories that should stay firmly, firmly apart. Like Australia to New York far apart.

 _Ugh_ , she thinks. _What the fuck is wrong with me._

The smell of his tie, his cologne, the same one still lingering on the jacket she left in her dorm room.

 

 

          Nico leads her down the length of the hallway, two doorways ahead, Ellie glances at the other as he opens the one on the left.

“Office,” he says, tilting his head to the other door, noticing her curiosity and then nudges her into the room he holds open, stealing his tie back as she moves in. “How about a movie?”

“I thought we were talking?” Ellie frowns, stepping into the room and turning to look back at him as he flicks on a low light.

The room is darker than the rest of his apartment, only one window, half covered with a blind, a large tv, sound system and what Ellie can guess, is music and movies along one wall.

“We will.” He shrugs, moving around her and dropping onto the couch, tilting his head to look at her as she hesitates near the arm of the soft looking, dark red couch.

He looks cocky and at ease in a way she hasn’t seen yet and she has no idea what to do with him; looks younger, his knees wide in that easy, boneless male slouch, his arm over the wide arm of the couch, close to her thigh as she hesitates.

His fingers graze her skin, catching the hem of her romper. “Come on, conversation isn’t going anyway, we can have it after dinner.”

“Pizza,” Ellie says dumbly. “And a movie.”

“Già, e diventi carina quando ti arrabbi,” he says, his eyes dark in the low light of the room. A gentle tug, but Ellie stands still.

Her eyes narrow, bottom lip pushing out, “I don’t know what that means.”

His lips twitch and he tugs again. “Google it.”

Ellie scowls at him, but she thinks it probably looks more petulant because he laughs and then shakes his head.

“You can pick whatever you want.”

 “What if I want to watch a chick-flick?”

“Whatever you want, Ellie,” he says, a smirk stretching into a grin. He looks like he won something, Ellie thinks, though she has no idea what.

“What if I want to talk?”

His hair is a dark smudge against the back of the couch, his head tilting away as he sighs. “We’ll eat first, then talk.”

“No,” Ellie says, crossing her arms. “I want to talk now.”

“You’re a bit of a brat,” he says, eyes dark. “You know that, don’t you?”

Ellie glares, but Nico leans forward, knotting his fingers in the hem of her romper shorts to tug her closer, his knuckles grazing her thigh and Ellie jolts a little, stepping away. The heat, memory-press of his skin on hers is electric like all her body is focused on the nerves beneath the skin of her thigh.

 “Knock it off,” she bites out.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, something behind his eyes.

“Yes,” Ellie stares at him, “I don’t know you.”

He goes quiet, his eyes heavy, moving over her face and downwards in a way that makes her… that makes her toes curl a little on the wood floor, nerves, awareness, something hot beneath her skin.

“I’d like to fix that,” he says slowly, eyes on Ellie as she stands just to the front and side of him, near the couch but not quite close enough for him to reach.

And there’s something about the way he says it that makes Ellie’s stomach tighten, _fix knowing me,_ she thinks, _or fix me not wanting to be touched?_

“Both,” he says quietly which doesn’t help the state of her insides at all.

“Stop doing that too,” she bites out, crossing her arms.

“Can’t help it,” he says, a smirk on his lips. “You’re so easy to read.”

“I am not,” Ellie denies.

He shrugs, “Alright.” But it’s too easy and Ellie knows he’s teasing her.

“I thought you wanted to have _a nice long talk,_ ” Ellie air quotes his words from the garage.

“Oh, I do. But to be honest, Ellie, I’m thinking half the reason you’re giving me the time of day is because we _haven’t_ had that conversation yet.”

She watches him push to his feet, watches him move over to a shelf on the back wall, a mini bar of some sort, a glass, a clink of ice and splash of something amber.

When he turns, he leans against the bar table and lifts the drink to his lips; his eyes heavy and...

Something.

Ellie fights the urge to fidget, feeling stupid, standing in the middle of the room.

It stays quiet for another minute before he takes another sip and moves back towards her, setting the glass on the arm of the couch, he stands in front of her, Ellie tilting her head back to look up at him, kind of wanting to curse him a little, for being so tall.

 “See, I think, as soon as we have this conversation you’re going to run again.”

Ellie’s mouth opens, then shuts, because she can’t even deny it. His eyes feel heavy as his hand comes up, a finger brushing over her temple, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I think you’re itching to run right now.”

He isn’t wrong, Ellie’s been thinking about backing out ever since she got into the car with him, torn straight down the middle with wanting more of him and wanting nothing to do with him because—

“How do you know?”

Because there’s something more than a little wrong with the wires in her head, she thinks. Something crossed wrong, something crooked, maybe, knotted and tangled.

He smirks, his fingers slip behind her ear, along her pulse point, his eyes following as his thumb brushes her jawline, up over her cheek. “Because it’s what I would want to do if I had someone trying to shove their way into my life.”

“Is that what you’re trying to do?” Ellie looks up at him, his fingers touching where her dimple would be.

“Yes,” he answers, quietly, honestly.

His hand is far too large and far too warm. Ellie steps back, tearing her eyes away from his.

“What did you mean, in the elevator, when you said I got something else of yours too?”

He grins at her, a sharp, sudden thing. “My temper. Attitude, definitely.”

Ellie frowns at that. “I’m actually a very nice person, generally.”

“I’m sure you are, just not around me, right?”

He’s teasing her, but her cheeks tint warm anyway, knowing that she hasn’t exactly been the…nicest or most polite she’s ever been in her life.

“It’s alright. I get it, you're scared,” he smirks down at her, stepping back and reaching for his drink; taking a long sip and watching her while he does.

 _Scared_ , Ellie scoffs, indignant. “I’m not _scared_.”

He shrugs, “Alright.”

“I’m _not_.”

“Sure.”

“You’re such a _dick,_ ” Ellie bites out, moving past him and dropping onto the couch, reaching for the remote and flicking it on. “I’m not scared of you.”

Ellie feels the couch sink as he settles on the other side but refuses to look at him.

“I didn’t say you were scared of me, sweetheart.”

“Then what—”

But the sound of a buzzer breaks through her words and Nico’s glass clinks onto the coffee table in front of them and he’s standing again, heading out of the room without a word.

It isn’t until she hears voices that she realises it’s the pizza.

And when he comes back, with a water bottle and napkins and drags the hot, spicy smell of pizza in with him, Ellie’s stomach growls.

“Did you pick something?” he asks, setting the pizza box on the table and dragging it a bit closer, leaning forward to drop a slice onto a napkin and passing it to her.

Ellie takes the slice and flips through the movie selection on his network, finding the first action movie that is stupid and loud and distracting.

“What happened to the chick-flick?” he teases, as he bites into his own slice.

Ellie shrugs, watching Keanu Reeves on the screen.

They eat in silence, the room lit in the blue flickering light of the tv screen; Nico putting away more pizza than Ellie thinks a man as fit as should be able to eat in pizza, but she guesses, if he’s anything like her, it doesn’t take long to burn off.

She thinks he might be letting her have the quiet, the mindless moment of dinner and a movie, because he doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t say anything when she drops her last, half-eaten slice back in the box and wipes her hands on a new napkin.

He’s watching her, Ellie knows, can feel it, a little secondary awareness despite the distraction of the movie playing on the screen. But he doesn’t say anything when she curls up nearer the opposite end of the couch, sinking lower, resting her head on the arm and the soft, matching red pillow and pulling her knees up closer to her chest.

There’s a moment from the other side of the couch where his eyes feel heavy and she debates looking at him, but there are too many questions in her head and she’s not even sure which ones she really wants answers to, or if he’s right, and Ellie is a bit scared of…

 _Defining_ everything.

The couch jostles a little, and she feels him lean closer, and then there’s fabric, a heavy-knit blanket being dragged over her and she steals a glance at him, watches as he drops used napkins into the box, collecting everything but her water bottle and his drink.

She listens to his footsteps, to the sound of a cupboard door, a crinkling of garbage. It’s strange, she’s used to ambient noises in the dorms, used to people always being around, even used to just listening to it being her mother or her grandmother being the only other people in the house… But tucked up beneath a blanket that smells like fresh laundry, on a couch in an…entertainment room of some sort, in a loft that belongs to her…

Her _dad_.

It just feels weird.

He’s gone for longer than she expects, long enough she gets curious, turning the volume down a few degrees and straining her ears to hear anything. Five minutes, ten minutes, Keanu Reeves kills more men and Ellie is just about to get up and go looking when she hears the creak of footsteps and Nico is setting a foot on the coffee table and pushing it back, leaving space for him to move in.

And then he’s crouching down in front of her and his hand lands on her head, fingers threading into her hair, pushing it up and away from her face slowly. Beneath the blankets, her toes curl, a little bit of something travelling down in her spine.

“Why don’t you like being touched?”

Ellie can pick out the curious, nearly hesitant concern on his face, even in the low, shifting light of the movie. It’s only now that he asks it, does Ellie think of how he could take her statement.

“It’s not— It’s nothing like that. Not what you’re thinking.”

He nods, staying silent, but something eases in his shoulders and his nails scratch a little, just a little at her scalp. He’s waiting for her to elaborate, to say something more, but Ellie can’t scrape anything out of her mouth that isn’t some form of an admittance that his touch makes her feel things she shouldn’t and is trying very hard not to.

Because she’s been half stuck on the memory of him holding her in the car since that morning and she—

It’s dangerous, she thinks, wanting to be held by him. She has no idea what she’s looking for in the weight of his arms yet.

His fingers brush through her hair a few more times and then he pushes to his feet, moving away and settling in on the other end of the couch. Turning to face her this time, with one long leg on the couch and the other still on the floor, he meets her eyes in the blue-light that makes his look electric despite the shadows.

“Come here.”

It’s not really a question, not really a request either, it’s a statement; like he’s used to people listening, used to hearing yes or maybe nothing at all but silent compliance.

It…irritates her a bit, but he reaches forward and tugs on the blanket on her legs, and Ellie sits up, turning on the couch to face him, hugging her knees. He tugs again, his face unreadable.

He’s relaxed, leaning back on the arm of the couch, half-lit by the tv and unreadable in the shifting colours. His shirt looser, collar open, sleeves rolled, belt missing; he looks comfortbale, undone after a long day. And it hits her then, more than before, that this is his home, his life and he’s brought her here without any hesitation.

His hand closes around her arm and urges her closer.

The movie plays on, Ellie has no idea what’s happening, because he’s giving her the choice to come closer or not, like he knows that she’s hesitant and Ellie’s only just realising that he’s… _not._

“Why do you believe me?” she whispers, doesn’t mean for it to come out so quietly, but it does.

He doesn’t say anything, but his hand tightens just a little on her arm.

“Come here, Ellie.” It’s so low, his voice, she thinks, a low timber that makes her feel likes he’s plucking her bones and his voice is all vibration.

His hand lifts and he tugs on the bunch of the blankets over Ellie’s shoulders, tugging her into him. She hesitates only for a moment before letting him pull her into him.

“I have…connections,” he says after he’s settled her where he wants her, his hand warm and wide on her cheek. “It wasn’t hard to find out. And…”

His finger presses a little harder on her cheek. “I saw those, that day I came to your work.”

“Dimples convinced you?” Ellie feels her smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, watches a similar one spread on his as he shrugs.

“I knew you were before that, but I saw you smile and it… I just knew you were mine.”

_Mine._

Ellie swallows, dropping her head onto her folded knees, his hand sliding off her cheek and onto her head; her stomach twisting, something flickering through her body at that one simple word.

The movie rolls on, the volume too low to really hear all that much, just explosions and yelling, but she doesn’t think either are really watching.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Curious if people would prefer to keep this single POV or to have dual POV, I'm currently on the fence, any opinions?


	5. Part One, V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so no Nico POV yet, I think I agree with some people that say the mystery of not knowing what's going on in his head yet is better.  
> But I think I will eventually split the POV's, probably after the relationship starts, I think. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!

 

* * *

Chapter V

* * *

 

 

 

 

                                Her phone buzzes in the pocket of her school blazer, just once, as Ellie’s taking notes on the Philippine-American War. She waits until Professor Sirai turns back to the board, her hand moving across the whiteboard and leaving _Fighting erupted between forces of the United States and those of the Pro-Spanish Philippine Republic on February 4—_

 

 

 

> _N: Lunch?_

Ellie glances at the clock, seeing there’s no more than five minutes before the end of the period and lunch break.

 

 

 

> _E: It’s kinda creepy you know it’s my lunch_
> 
> _N: Is it? Sorry. I’ll try again._
> 
> _N: What time is your lunch break?_

Ellie bites her lip to hold in her smile, glancing up at the board and making sure the professor is still facing away.

 

 

 

> _E: Why?_
> 
> _N: Maybe I think Trinity isn’t feeding you enough._

Ellie stifles a laugh, ignoring Mya’s glance in her direction, curiosity piqued by Ellie with her phone in her lap.

 

 

 

> _N: Maybe I just want to see you._

Her stomach does a little twist at that, a fluttery feeling in her limbs as she responds, glancing once more to the front of the class to check for any wandering eyes.

 

 

 

> _E: I only have like 45 minutes._
> 
> _N: No problem. See you in five._

She pockets her phone just as Professor Sirai is turning back to the class, discussing tomorrow’s topic and the chapter she wants them to read on about.

Ellie copies the rest of the writing on the board quickly, finishing just as the bell starts to ring.

In the hallway, Mya and her fall into step and Ellie begs off their normal habit of meeting up with a few other friends and heading to the cafeteria.

“Is it the same ‘family friend,’” Mya smirks, her tone teasing.

“Maybe,” Ellie shrugs. “Maybe not.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, and then knocks her elbow in Ellie’s side. “Fine, abandon me. Go meet up with Mister _It’s-not-like-that._ But you’re telling me more later.”

Ellie turns at the next corner, grinning over her shoulder at Mya as she walks away. “Maybe!”

Mya pulls a face, but the crowd of students in the hallways, all heading towards the cafeteria, swallow her up quickly; Ellie heads outside, cutting through buildings to get to the other side of campus faster.

She catches sight of him, just like last time, at the edge of the property, a dark grey convertible today that nearly makes her laugh; just as sleek as the last, something that looks like it came right from some car show.  He’s leaning against it, hands tucked in his pants pocket, wearing a suit like he was born in one.

She speeds up a little, her book bag bumping on her thigh as she makes her way across the grass. He smiles at something, at her, maybe, she isn’t sure, sees him look away from her, shaking his head at something.

Something like a laugh reaches her ears as she comes to a stop in front of him, watching as he pushes a hand through his hair, his smile bright when he looks at her.

Ellie smiles, tilting her head up to meet his eyes, squinting into the daylight a little. “What?”

“I forgot Trinity had uniforms,” he says, eyes moving down and then he looks away again, shaking his head.

“Oh,” Ellie says, looking down at herself, at the white of her buttoned shirt, the navy blue of her jacket matching the colour of her skirt. “It’s a Private school, so…it’s pretty common.”

He doesn’t say anything, just looking at her for a moment, like he's debating something, debating saying something more...but then he pushes off the car, and opens the door for her without saying anything until she's slipping into the seat.

“Forty-five minutes isn’t much time to go anywhere.” There’s a tray on the backseat, nothing more than a shallow cardboard box, but it holds four little takeout boxes and two water bottles. “I figured I’d bring lunch to you.”

“So, you had this planned out then,” Ellie laughs, watching him as he slips into the driver’s seat and reaches back to grab the tray.

“No, apparently that’s _creepy,_ ” he teases, his mouth crooked with humour. “I just happened to be in the area with lunch already and thought I’d drop by.”

“Uh-huh,” Ellie laughs. “How convenient for me.”

“I think so.”

“How did you know what time lunch was?” Ellie asks, watching as he pushes his seat back a little to rest the box on his lap. It’s a strange sight, him in all his…well-dressed, expensive wear, in a car the _definitely_ cost more than Ellie’s tuition, opening up takeaway boxes and handing her a plastic fork.

“I have my ways,” he smirks, not adding anything else. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I picked some different things.”

The boxes hold four different meals, stir-fry, some salad with chicken, a noodle dish, and something that smells so spicy it makes Ellie’s eyes water.

“Oh,” she pushes that box back towards him. “Whatever that is it smells like paint-stripper.”

He laughs, “It’s Thai, I’d hope it be spicy.”

“It’s all yours,” she makes a face, reaching for the salad first. Figuring if there’s four, she’s more than able to try two of them.

After they’ve both tried a few bites of their lunches, Ellie swallows and tries again. “But really, how did you know?”

“That day I came to your school, there was a weekly planner on the wall, some whiteboard thing, the periods were blocked in.”

“Oh…why did you come to my school? How did you even know I was…who I was, really?”

“I told you,” he says, smirking around a bite of noodles, . “I have connections.”

“That’s like…the most non-answer ever.”

He shrugs, still smirking at her. “Maybe I had someone follow you.”

Ellie’s fork pauses on the way to her mouth, gauging the truth of that, but she can’t read anything on his face but a crinkle of humour in the corner of his eyes.

“Or maybe I watched security footage and scoped out what train lines you took back to campus.”

Ellie blinks.

 “Or maybe you were wearing a shirt with your school insignia on it.”

Ellie blinks. Blinks again and then laughs. “You’re such a dick. I was wearing a school shirt.”

“I know. Bouncer at the door recognised the symbol on it,” he grins at her then, watching her laugh. “Then I went through student rosters…and came across a name I recognised.”

“Evans.”

“Evans,” he nods, pointing a fork at her. “And then you—”

“Oh God,” Ellie winces, feeling her cheeks flush and ducking her head. “You saw me.”

“Hard to miss,” he teases. “Wanted to go after you but didn’t think chasing a girl through the halls would give off the best impression.”

“So how did you find out where I work?” Ellie frowns, chewing another piece of lettuce and chicken.

He takes his time taking another bite of noodles, eyes on hers, flicking over her and back to her face. “Ask me again another time, maybe I’ll tell you.”

“That’s mean. I want to know.”

He shrugs. “So what are you learning about?”

Ellie makes a face at him, but all he does is lift one dark brow, waiting for her to answer his question. With a sigh, she lists her subjects and the things they're studying in each class, talking about her teachers when he asks about them.

If he’s at all annoyed when she brings up Paul and her Lit class, he hides it well; she isn’t sure what to make of his reaction this time, compared to last.

Forty-five minutes seems like more than enough time for lunch every other day, but when Ellie hears the warning bell in between them laughing about Paul’s penchant for doing voices when he reads to the class, she suddenly thinks it’s not nearly enough time at all.

The laughter dies and Nico meets her eyes. “I take it that’s your cue.”

Ellie nods, closing up the little takeout container of stir-fry she didn’t finish. “Thanks for…for this, it was…nice.”

“Meet you here Wednesday?”

He gives her a crooked smile, watching her fiddle with the takeout box, Ellie glances away, feeling like she should say something more, because he doesn’t have to try, doesn’t have to care, doesn’t have to—

“I don’t…” Ellie swallows. “You aren’t like…obligated to get to know me, you know. I’m a big girl, I can underst—”

His hand slips over the side of her neck, palm cupping the back, thumb pressing on the underside of her jaw to make her look up at him. She startles a little, stiffening at the touch, but he leans across the center console, over the picked apart lunch tray and presses his lips, soft, to her cheek. A brief kiss, barely even a kiss, really. More skin slipping over skin, his thumb holding her head still, his hand keeping her body still.

He leans back a little, the space between their faces, their mouths, their eyes—

“I don’t feel obligated.”

Ellie nods a little, barely noticeable shift of her head. He flashes her a smile, a quick thing, and presses another barely-there kiss to her cheek, the scent of his cologne, whatever it is he wears, aftershave, deodorant, shampoo, lingers under her nose as his mouth lingers next to hers.

His thumb brushes over her jawline and he leans back, settling back into the driver’s seat. “Wednesday.”

It isn’t until she’s climbing out of the car, making her way across the field that she realises her heart is pounding and her neck feels cold in the absence of the weight of his palm; the ghosting brush of his thumb on her jaw lingers.

 

               

 

* * *

 

 

 

              Mya slips into her bed, shoving Ellie towards the wall after they’ve settled in for the night and the two girls they were studying with have made their way back to their own dorms.

“Tell me,” she demands, and Ellie doesn’t have to guess what she’s asking about.

“I really…there’s not much to say,” Ellie lies and doesn’t know why she can’t get the words _he’s my father_ out of her mouth. "He's just a guy."

“ _Just a guy,"_ Mya drawls. "Uh-huh...Then what’s his name? How old is he? How do you know him? Are there any more of him?”

Ellie laughs, turning her face into her pillow. “You’re ridiculous.”

Mya has an expectant, impatient look on her face when Ellie finally pulls her head out of her pillow to look at her, the other girl's toes digging into her legs.

“Nicolas, I don’t know, thirty-something, he’s known my mom since before I was born, and I don’t know.”

“What’s he do?”

Ellie hesitates. “...I don’t really know.”

Mya rolls her eyes, looking exasperated. “I feel like you’re purposefully being vague to keep him all to yourself.”

“Business, I guess. He owns Elysium—”

“Oh my God, he doesn’t!”

Ellie almost jolts back from the force of Mya’s exclamation. "He does."

“El! How haven’t you mentioned that! Can he get us in? Can you ask? Ellie!”

“Mya," she laughs, shoving at the other girl when she clings on to her, desperate and excited all at once. “We're seventeen, I don’t think—”

“Ask him, oh my God, please!”

“Why would you want to even go there?”

“Why—” Mya sputters. “Why wouldn’t I? Why wouldn’t _you?_ It’s supposed to be amazing!”

“Yeah, but like…” Ellie trails off, unsure of what to say, realising she hasn’t really given much thought to it at all. To what him owning a club like Elysium might mean about him.

“Isn’t it supposed to be like…adult?”

Mya shoots her a deadpan, unimpressed look. “I’m sorry, are you a toddler? It’s a club, all clubs are for ‘adults.’”

“No, but like, everyone says—”

“Who knows if that’s true, I bet it’s just some VIP lounge or some shit, Ethan talks a lot of shit. Have you asked him, Nicolas?”

“Uh, no, I’ve never…” Ellie wouldn’t even know what to say, hasn’t really thought much about the club at all.

“I bet it’s just a VIP thing,” she goes on, ignoring Ellie’s distraction. “I think there’d be way more publicity if it was something like…weird, you know?”

Ellie doesn’t know what to think, doesn’t even know why she hasn’t thought about it, it is where she went to find him, after all.

Mya rattles on, Ellie lost to her thoughts, thinking about what Ethan said, about how his father goes there, about how he’s heard that it’s a place where rules don’t always apply.

Whatever that means.

 _It’s apparently named for it,_ Ethan had said, _Elysium, you know. It means like, happiness or something._

She thinks about that night, the throbbing thump of the music, the dim lights, the shifting bodies…the way he sat in the center of that long couch, surrounded by…

Ellie doesn’t know, women she guesses, she hadn’t really looked at anyone else, too caught in his gaze before she bolted.

Now, though, now she can't help but wonder more about it.

 

 

                She doesn’t sleep well after Mya slips out of her dorm bed, her mind spinning, questioning the type of man he is to own a club like that, trying to recreate that night, to remember who he was with, to try to piece him together in a way that gives her a clearer picture of who he is.

She doesn’t think she ends up with anything, still a man defined by the edges of his suits and the way he looks at her, the way his hands feel—

Ellie swallows, rolling over and ignoring the flicker of heat in her stomach.

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

 

                Nico brings her breakfast for lunch which makes Ellie laugh, surprisingly thrilled with his choice. The little, checkered takeout package filled with a fluffy waffle and piled with strawberries and whipped cream. A shared container with bacon and sausages, fresh pressed orange juice later and Ellie thinks she couldn't possibly be more full or more satisfied.

“Where are you getting all this?” Ellie questions, licking the whipped cream from her fork; squinting a little at him and trying to not think about anything else but lunch. And definitely not to just start blurting out all the questions on her tongue.

His eyes dart away when she looks at him, watching him run a hand through his hair. “This one is from the place I took you to that first day. Monday’s was from this little food truck near my work.”

She thinks, _don’t say it. It doesn’t matter what he does. It’s none of your business what he does in his free time._

Because that was free time, wasn’t it? That night in the bar, drinking in a club, whether he owns it or not.

_Don’t ask._

“Elysium?”

_Great job, El._

“Different work. Elysium is more like…a side venture.”

“So, what do you do?”

“Business, mostly.” Nico shrugs, like it’s not important, like he doesn’t live in an apartment that probably cost more money than most people could dream about seeing in a lifetime. Like they aren’t sitting in a luxury car. Like the watch on his wrist isn’t something more expensive than some _cars._

 _“Business,”_ Ellie parrots, waiting for more, watching him shift the seat back to give himself a bit more legroom, stretching out the long length of his leg in the front seat as best he can.

“Yes,” he gives a crooked little smile, like he knows she’s asking for more information about him, the dimple in his cheek distracting. “More of a family business really... We provide, people buy.”

“Buy what?” Ellie frowns, catching his eyes darting to her mouth as she stuffs another strawberry, whipped cream covered bit of waffle in her mouth before he looks away again.

“Whatever they want. It’s…not all that complicated really. More of a supply and demand sort of thing. We follow the demand and... provide.”

“But what sort of things?” Ellie questions, licking her lips and shifting in her seat to lean over it and put her empty takeaway box on the backseat where Nico put his. “Dancing?”

“Dancing?” he questions, watching as Ellie settles back on her knees to face him.

“Elysium?” she lifts a brow, like _obviously._

“Not just that. Everyone likes having a good time…that’s a fact of life, sweetheart, it's an easy guarantee, you know?” he says, and then smirks. “Everyone does…even underage delinquents who should be tucked away in their dorm beds.”

 Ellie laughs, reaching out to shove at his shoulder. He catches her wrist, tugging her closer as Ellie leans away, still laughing. “I am not that bad—”

“Who sneak out and get drunk with college boys.”

“It was one time!”

“Who can’t hold their liquor and go home with strange men.” Ellie sobers a little at that because he sounds a little more serious and less teasing when he says it, despite the little uptick on his mouth. “And then threaten to hit them with their own lamp.”

“You’re not exactly a stranger,” she denies, letting him pull her a little closer, his other hand coming up to tuck a piece of hair, slipped free from her braid, back behind her ear.

“Maybe not,” he says lowly, his fingers slow to leave the thin skin behind her ear, his eyes moving over her face as he presses one into her cheek, right where her dimple should be. “But you should still be more careful.”

The warning bell goes, and Ellie startles a little but doesn’t pull away when he leans forward and presses his lips to where his finger was. She's a little disappointed when he pulls back a little, meeting her eyes, but she shoves the feeling away and wonders if he notices how similar their eye colour is.

“Have dinner with me Friday.”

It’s not even a question, Ellie thinks, more of a statement, less of a _will you_ and more of a _you_ _will._

Ellie wonders if he gets a lot of women who agree to everything he says, and then tells herself she doesn’t care. That it doesn’t matter.

It’s not the same thing anyway, this is… _different._ He’s her…it’s not a _date_.

His cologne a warm thing beneath the cool, edge-of fall tipped breeze, his fingers soft and somehow not, lingering on her wrist, waiting for her to say something.

She turns her head, just a little, leaning forward, just a little, to presses her lips to his cheek, a scrape of stubble on his jaw and against her lips; more of that same smell that must be aftershave, something spiced and heady.

His breath ghosts her neck, his hand tightens on her wrist, a flicker of tension and then he lets her go. "Is that a yes?"

As she’s climbing out of the car and stuffing her feet back into her shoes, Ellie wonders why it feels like she’s doing something she shouldn’t. Why it feels like she’s walking a tightrope, edging along a ledge, not knowing what’s on either side of her.

Why she always feels like she’s doing something _wrong._

He’s watching her, she knows, can feel the weight of his eyes on her, but can’t bring herself to look over at him until she’s ready to leave. She wonders if he feels any of this at all, if that feeling she gets, that she's pushing at something she shouldn't, just by being around him... if that feeling that lingers inside of her exists at all inside of him.

She tells herself it’s a stupid feeling, she’s not doing anything wrong _._ Just because he’s…attractive doesn’t mean she’s doing anything wrong getting to know him.

She’s allowed to get to know him, isn’t she?

He's...her father, after all. She's _allowed._

Nico’s got one arm stretched over the seat backs, the other on the wheel, watching her like it’s nothing, like the weight of his gaze isn’t something that sparks in her nerves in a way that it shouldn’t.

Ellie bites the inside of her cheek, something in the air between them, something she thinks—

No. No. She’s not going to think about it. Not going to pick at it. Going to keep walking that tightrope until she can see what’s below her.

She nods, ignoring the too quick beat of her heart when he grins at her, all wide and white and he’s _unfairly attractive_ she thinks and shoves that thought away as quickly as it comes.

“Perfect. Pick you up at seven.”

 

 

 

               ( In bed that night, she thinks about his eyes on her, about him leaning over her in the elevator, his voice a rolling thing, _do you want me to spank you, sweetheart?_

She thinks about his body, nearly between her legs, shoulders broad, hands braced on either side of her:

_The only person I’m interested in is you._

Ellie reaches over to her night table, grabbing her iPod, drowning out her thoughts with music, flicking through songs to find beats that will drown out the beat of her pulse, that too quick, too warm feeling inside of her.)

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

 

                By the time Friday rolls around, Mya is beside herself with some mix of envy and pride.

“I can’t believe you never mentioned that you know the guy who owns _Elysium._ Three years, El! We could have—”

Ellie tunes her out, examining herself in the mirror. Blowing out a breath as she runs her hands through her hair one more time, pushing through the wavy pieces and hoping they look smoother than she thinks they do. All while telling herself that she doesn’t care what she looks like, that she’s not trying to look nice _for him,_ she just wants to look nice _next to him._

Is there a difference? Maybe. _Yes_ , she thinks, one’s a little less…confusing.

_Wrong._

“For someone who _isn’t like that_ , you look way more nervous than you have on any other date,” Mya teases, lounging on her bed, already in her pyjamas, ready to cover for Ellie if she needs to. Both of them already logged into dorms for the evening, having passed by their Hall Resident on their way in, neither are too concerned about being checked in on.

“I’m not nervous…I’m just…”

“Nervous?”

Ellie huffs a laugh. “Sort of, I guess. He’s so…”

“Hot?”

“He's just... he didn’t even say where we were going, you know?” Ellie frowns, looking at her dress again, a simple cotton dress in pale pink, that sits a little higher than mid-thigh. “You think I should wear something nicer?”

“You look great, Ellie,” Mya rolls on to her feet, moving towards her closet. “Maybe heels though, if you want to look a little, you know. _Mature_.”

“I don’t want to…” She looks at herself in the mirror, huffing in frustration and reaching for the little black dress she had discarded earlier, thinking it was too…just too _date-like._ Thinner, a bit shorter, a little more skin on display, a little less _cute_ and more... _date-like._

“So…because I’m me,” Mya says from the closet, kneeling and searching through her things. “I’m just going to say this once because I know you’re in your Denial Place—”

“Denial—”

“Denial Place, yes.” Mya continues, sounding entertained and triumphant as she pulls out two pairs of heels that Ellie looks at doubtfully. “Black dress, definitely... You keep saying it’s not like that, which _okay_ …” she gives Ellie a doubtful look. “I’m just saying, he’s stupid hot, stupid rich and looks like he’s packing, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh my _God,”_ Ellie groans, dropping her head into her hands. “Stop talking.”

“I’m just saying there’s a good chance that he’s got a huge—”

“Oh my God! Stop!” Ellie laughs because if there’s anything she really does know about him, Mya isn’t wrong. She saw that box in his bathroom. Not that she's thinking about it.

Nope.

Mya laughs, ducking Ellie’s hand as she swings to hit her arm.

“He’s probably really good with it too—” Mya laughs, dodging Ellie’s grab for her. “Experienced, you know.”

“Mya!”

“I’m just saying!” she grins, holding out a pair of pumps that Ellie ignores. “It would be a good, like, initiation.”

“I don’t need an initiation, I've done stuff.” Ellie sends her a glare. “And also, please shut up.”

“I mean if I could take back my first time and give it to someone like _him…_ ” Mya waggles her brows. “I totally would. Like, Mike was sweet, you know, but it was so awkward. And _quick._ ”

“You remember that he’s my— he’s a family friend right? Like knows my mother, kind of family friend.”

“What, like _knows_ knows her? Like—” she makes a face, a _you_ _know,_ kind of thing. “Did they—”

 _At least once,_ Ellie thinks, _because here I am._

_This isn't fucked up at all..._

“I mean, I…don’t know. But that’s not the _point_.”

“Listen, El, I’m just saying, if like, you wanted to, you could totally just like…hop on that—”

Ellie groans.

“Guys are easy, yeah? They’re all the same. If you wanted to, I mean. There’s no way he’d say no.”

Ellie just shakes her head, trying not to think about sex and Nico at the same time, trying very hard—

_No, not hard. Stop it._

Trying to keep everything separate, in the boxes and labels they belong in.

Nico belongs as far away from the sex box as she can keep him.

(If the idea sticks in her head, it’s in the way she feels like her skin is a little too tight, in the way her body feels to warm, in the way his voice, his stubble, the soft press of his lips—)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

                There’s something different about meeting for dinner, though she doesn’t know why. The sunlight nearly gone, leaving everything a quieter shade of blue. Though the quiet is false, the city is never quiet, lingering in the traffic and the people, the city a street away.

But in the moment, with him parked on the curb and the quieter street that circles the two college campuses so close together, the field behind her and the grass cool, the breeze light and chilly, Ellie thinks it just feels… _different._

More… _real_ , maybe.

 _Real,_ she isn’t sure what she even means by that. But she knows the sight of him, waiting for her, in those suits that look tailor made to fit him, his hands in his pockets, leaning against a sleek black car does _something_ to her. A little tilt-shift of her world as he straightens off the side of the car, hands leaving his pockets, but there's no smile for her this time, just a quiet look she doesn't know what to do with.

Ellie pushes her lips together, feeling the slippery slide of the pink tinted lip gloss, resisting the urge to bite her lip as he looks her over.

“You didn’t say where we were going…” she starts, fiddling with the hem of the slouchy grey cardigan she’s wearing over the thin black dress to ward off the chill of the fall weather.

He steps forward then, one hand reaching for her side, a warm, slow fingertip to palm touch that Ellie feels every second of before his hand settles on her hip. He leans down as he pulls her to stand toe to toe, pressing a kiss to her cheek, his hand hot, his breath warm.

“You look lovely, Ellie.”

Ellie swallows, her eyes closing for a second, taking a heartbeat to pull herself together as something sparks in her stomach, a little jolt that feels like she missed a step, a bolt of heat inside of her. She steps back and wraps her arms around herself, hugging the soft sweater and her own body, some need for some defence against him.

It’s just… _he’s_ just…too much. She really needs to figure out a way to box him up and label him. Keep him defined by the label of _Dad._

Ellie forces a smile. “So where are we going?”

He smirks, turning to open the car door, not answering until he’s slipping into the seat next to her, the car purring to life.

“You’ll see.”

 

 

 

 

                Ellie balks at the sight of the restaurant, turning to watch Nico as he hands off the keys to his car to a valet, the boy not even glancing twice, like he’s seen cars like this before, maybe that he’s seen the car and the man before, Ellie isn’t sure.

She’s never heard of _Casa_ before, or if she has, she doesn’t remember it. But it’s not hard to tell from the outside, from the other cars pulling up that it’s the kind of restaurant Ellie would never step foot in.

There’s a moment where she’s stuck still and then Nico’s hand is warm on her lower back, a silent little nudge and Ellie blinks up at him.

“Come on,” he says, his hand pressing heavier.

It takes her another second to move, to will herself into the restaurant that’s all sparkling low lights and modern décor. Low music, setting an ambience that’s all about luxury; men in suits and ties, women in dresses that probably cost more than Ellie’s entire wardrobe.

Nico leads her in, his hand the only thing keeping her going, part of her wanting to turn back and tell him meals in the car are much more her speed.

That _Red Lobster_ is much more her speed.

He doesn’t say anything until they reach the hostess, who eyes him in a way Ellie is familiar with, one that says she sees him, one that says she’d like to see _more_ of him.

The waitress doesn’t spare Ellie a glance until he’s saying something about a table and when she finally looks at Ellie it’s more a judgement than anything else. The hostess glances between them, then smiles, though it’s not as true as it was moments before when she was only directing it at the man and not the girl he’s with.

She feels suddenly aware, more so in the wake of the hostess’ gaze, of her age, her on-sale dress and her borrowed shoes; of her _age,_ her place, next to someone like Nicolas Cordova.

Who drives more than one luxury car, who owns a loft over Central Park, that looks—

That looks—

Ellie feels like every eye is on her, like she’s a bug beneath a microscope, that she’s the very obvious bit of dirt stuck to the bottom of a leather shoe.

She wonders if this is what Julia Roberts felt like in Pretty Woman. Out of place. Like she didn’t belong at all and she knew that everyone else knew it.

Nico’s hand presses on her back again as they follow the hostess around the outer edge of the restaurant, bypassing a waiting line that Ellie only glances at before she looks away, catching sight of more than a few eyes on them as they cut the line so quickly.

The lighting inside is low and becomes more intimate the further in they go; it doesn’t ease her nerves as much as she’d like it too, despite the lower lighting offering a bit more privacy. She's too hyper aware of every table they pass, every face they pass... every step she takes, all she can feel is his hand wide and warm against her lower back.

She can’t help but wonder what someone might think, what they see when they look at them.

She tells herself that no one is even looking. That no one cares. That it’s New York and no one gives a shit… but she can’t stop feeling like she’s so far out of her place, so far out of her depth that everyone can see it.

Ellie thinks they pass by a an actress, or something, the face familiar enough that she looks at the woman twice, before telling herself to not be _that_ person.

Nico stops as the hostess does, at a table set for two at the far back of the room, lit only by the low, glass orb lights hanging from the ceiling and a small, round glass orb set in the middle of the table, giving off a flickering candle-light glow.

It's pretty.

The hostess speaks to Nico in a low voice, standing next to him as he pulls out Ellie chair, his hand sliding away from her back, before taking his own seat, the waitress smiling and passing him a menu that he waves off.  Ordering a bottle of something alcoholic that makes the waitress cut her eyes towards Ellie again, though she doesn’t say anything.

When she leaves, Nico looks at her across the table, a small, easy smile on his face. “No fish, right?”

Ellie blinks, pushing her lips together, looking around them, the quiet din of the other guests, the low music, the lights above them reminding her of blurred snowflakes caught in street lamps.

It’s pretty.

Pretty expensive, too.

She shakes her head, her mouth opening to say something to him but snapping shut when a waiter appears, a matte black wine bottle in his hands, though Ellie realises, as he pops the lid and pours out two glasses, that it’s not wine, but something more like champagne.

The waiter smiles at her, setting the bottle in an ice bucket on a little stand beside the table. Ellie grabs the flute, eyeing Nico, like she's making sure this was for her, before bringing it to her mouth.

It’s silky, bubbly, sweet and bitter all at once, fizzes in her mouth and down her throat in a way that mirrors the prick of her nerves inside of her stomach. The same nerves that make her itchy to run, to leave and not face or admit whatever it is she thinks she might be feeling.

The ones that come alive now, all bright and sparking just like the alcohol in her belly, as he watches her drink, a little smile quirked in the corner of his mouth that says, yes, the drink is for her.

Nico takes a sip of his own, eyes still on her; she tries not to fidget, can feel the questions bubbling up inside of her like the carbonation in the drink.

“They didn’t card me.”

It’s not even a question, Nico shrugs, taking another mouthful of champagne. “You’re with me.”

She doesn’t know what to do with that statement, playing with the stem of the champagne flute, chilled beneath her fingers, Ellie bites the inside of her cheek to hold herself still. “Didn’t want to admit how old I was?”

It comes out more accusatory than she means it to, a little barbed, like she’s trying to rile him…she thinks she might be, just a little.

He’s been so composed, so put together, so untouchable and _other_ …tonight, especially. In his suits and luxury lifestyle and a restaurant that seats him right away, despite the people waiting. Just _him,_ most of all. All six foot whatever of him. Coming into her life... _shoving_ his way in, just like he said.

Nico eases back in his chair, looking like he owns it, his eyes dark as he regards her. “Believe me, I know how old you are.”

Ellie struggles to not look away, holding his gaze until his flickers away, a smile spreading across his face as he greets a different waitress, a woman wearing a tight black dress, her hair in a tight, neat bun at the back of her head, looking more in place in the setting than Ellie feels, even being the one drinking champagne and seated at the table.

Nico orders, his voice low, sparing a glance at Ellie as the waitress does, her smile polite, moving over her quickly before she leaves again.

“You come here a lot?”

 “Occasionally.”

The lack of more information is telling enough, Ellie knows what he isn’t saying, what the glances from the staff have said without actual words.

He’s known here, rather well, Ellie would guess, and he’s not often alone.

Ellie wonders if that’s not as fucked up to him as it is to her.

(Because it’s not a _date._ So why bring her somewhere that’s so obviously for _dates._ )

Ellie bites her lip, looking out over the restaurant, feeling young and stupid and not sure why she’s feeling…feeling _something…_

She wonders how many women he’s brought here. How many have sat across from him and how many he took home, his hand slipping lower than it was on her back, slipping beneath dress hems…

She takes another mouthful of champagne, letting the bubbles sit in her mouth, trying to distract herself from whatever is going on inside of her head.

“Ellie,” he starts, a little flicker of concern on his face. “What’s wrong?”

 _You,_ she thinks.

“Nothing,” she says. “It’s nice… this place.”

His eyes narrow, just a little, brows sinking together, considering her, but she’s saved from him saying anything as the waitress returns with two plates. Salad, or some fancier version of it that probably isn’t called salad but still technically is.

Nico thanks her and Ellie ignores the waitress’ eyes until she leaves. The table is quiet, but not comfortable, Ellie tries not to squirm, but she can feel Nico’s eyes on her, weighing her down.

“Ellie, what’s wrong?”

She feels like if she looks up at him he’ll know, so she doesn’t, spearing her fork into the leaves on her plate, a burst of lemon and bitterness, cut sweeter with bite-sized slices tomato and something else she can’t identify.

“It’s good,” Ellie says around her mouthful, seeing him pick up his own fork in the peripherals of her vision.

She isn’t sure what’s wrong, not exactly, just that she feels out of place, too young, too small, a kid playing dress up in cheap clothes. She thinks about eating next to him in his car, or on his couch, how easy that felt, compared to this.

She feels like everyone _knows—_

She sees the white of his napkin being tossed on the table, hears his chair slide back against the dark wood floor beneath them. She startles at the noise, looking up at him as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded bunch of bills, a money clasp, he peels one bill off, dropping it onto the table.

“What—”

Nico plucks the fork from her hand, his fingers closing around her wrist to pull her to her feet, his hand sliding into hers, hot and large and a weird sort of comfort she didn’t know she wanted.

He takes a step away from the table, pauses and turns back, grabbing the black champagne bottle and giving Ellie a crooked grin that makes her smile on reflex.

And then he’s leading her right back out of the restaurant.

She expects him to go to the valet parking, but instead, he turns left out of the doors, leading them down the street, passing by more than one nicely dressed couple who eye them as they pass.

She wonders if he cares at all, that he’s walking down a street carrying a bottle of champagne in one hand and the hand of a girl half his size in the other.

He doesn’t say anything, offering her a smile when he leads her down the subway stop at the street corner, ignoring her _where are we going,_ giving her a roguish smile that makes her heart trip.

She realises, as he shoulders through a little crowd coming out of the station and slides a metrocard through the slot before retaking Ellie’s hand as she slips through the turnstile behind him, that he really, honestly, doesn’t care about any looks they’re garnering.

Not that they’re that many, New York is a many-headed, many-faced thing, nothing is all that surprising anymore.

She takes comfort in that, as the musty air of the station surrounds them, as they take a spot on the platform, as the hot rush of air hits them, the train gliding in on a squeal of metal electricity.

They board the train, Nico pulling her towards a pole, the train still busy enough there aren't any seats available. His hand slips out of hers, reaching up, gripping onto it above her head, letting Ellie lean against it, standing nearly in front of her.

He looks down at her, the bottle still in his hand, standing close enough she can feel his body heat, close enough she can smell him under the stale smell of the subway. It’s the first time they’ve been toe to toe without him leaning down towards her.

He smiles at her, lifting a brow, and somehow Ellie thinks that they’re thinking the same thing, that her head barely reaches his chest, that she’s dwarfed between him and the pole at her back, that both of them are somehow absolutely entertained by it.

“See,” he mutters just for her ears. “Not enough milk.”

Ellie laughs, jostled as the train starts to move, as she braces her legs a little wider, as he sinks a little closer, the train speeding off down the tracks.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he smiles. “Not that far.”

“What about your car?”

He shrugs, obviously not worried about it. “I’ll send someone to pick it up.”

Ellie isn’t sure what he means by that, but lapses into silence, watching the stations roll by, watching the map and trying to figure out what route and direction he’s leading her in.

She glances around them, only catching one or two glances their way, nothing more than curiosity, a simple people-watching, the same one she does, the same one they all do occasionally.

It feels less stifling in the bustle, in the crowds and the streets and the world that New York is rather than the bubble of luxury in that dimly lit restaurant.

Ellie’s just another girl here, and he’s just a man.

She chews her cheek a little as they lapse into silence, replaying the night in her head, replaying what made him stand up, wondering what made him stand up.

He taps the bottle against her thigh and Ellie stifles a laugh, forgetting that he took it.

Eventually, after a few stops, his hand comes off the pole and slips back into hers, he shoulders them out through the crowds, just another New Yorker in the press of bodies, navigating the city.

The streets are in full nighttime glow, louder, somehow, voices and music, lit by lights and people more free in the hours after the sun goes down and responsibilities become problems of another day.

It’s not the nicest area, but it’s not the worst she’s ever been in either, he leads her down the street and then towards a grouping of food trucks—

Ellie laughs, realising where he’s going.

He grabs one of the rickety little benches set out in front of the trucks; a few others already filled, stealing spots of sidewalk and alley in the glow of a dingy restaurant lit that fluorescent cheap yellow glow.

There are a few lights strung across the trucks and Ellie looks them over as Nico pushes her into the seat and she watches him take off towards one of the trucks. Watches his mouth as he grins at one of the people leaning out of the truck, handing over a bill in exchange for two plastic cups.

He comes back, the cups small and cheap, and not what that champagne should be drank out of, at all.

She laughs, can’t catch it, feeling more like the bubbles in that drink, bursting bright and sweet, than she has all night.

He downs a large mouthful of his own, settling beside her on the bench, his arm dropping over her shoulders.

“What would you like?” he asks, lifting his cup towards the trucks. “There’s Mexican, Asian, Thai and some sort of fusion, Greek or something.”

Ellie looks them over, then shrugs. “You pick. I don’t care.”

He brings the cup to his mouth, swallowing another mouthful, looking at her, eyes moving over her face and then his arm tightens around her shoulders, pulling her into him, his lips touch her temple, a brief kiss. And then he smiles, passing her the cup in his hand as he stands and heads off.

Ellie doesn’t even bother pretending she isn’t watching him, feeling safe in the nighttime glow of the city, feeling anonymous, not-Ellie, just a girl on a—

Not a date, because it’s _not—_

Just a girl enjoying a night out.

 She drinks, watching Nico in the glow of the trucks, watches him laugh and smile as someone says something to him, a shrug of his shoulders, a couple obviously on a date who motion to his suit. He looks up and points to Ellie, who blinks, heat rising in her cheeks as the couple follow his direction.

She can’t help but wonder what he’s saying.

He does look out of place, tall and dark-suited, all pressed lines and broad shoulders. Not like the jeans and hoodies, the leggings and sweaters, the band shirts and plaid that make up the other people around them.

Ellie looks down at herself, the goosebumps on her legs, the October night chilled in the absence of the sun, but the soft grey of her oversized cardigan warm enough.

She fits more here than she did in that restaurant, though it’s his turn to look out of place.

Somehow he pulls it off like it doesn’t matter at all.

When he comes back he’s got two take out containers, little cardboard trays with three little tacos on each. Though she thinks taco isn’t the right word, it’s all bright with fruit and vegetables, tomatoes and spices and crispy purple cabbage.

It looks amazing.

He settles beside her again, setting the bottle at their feet, their cups go on either side of them and with a grin, they dig in.

It’s messy, but the tray catches all the spill, the sweet and sour and savoury juices that slide out on every bite, the falling bits of tomato and cabbage, the soft, hard crunch in every bite.

It’s _amazing_.

“So, tell me about Ellie,” he says around a mouthful, his cheek full.

Ellie blinks, shifting on the bench to face him a little more, close enough to steal warmth from his side. “N’much t’say,” she says, hiding her chewing behind her hand as she swallows.

“You grow up here?”

“New Rochelle,” Ellie answers, licking her lips. “Grandma owns a house there, mum moved back in with her when…you know, when she had me.”

“Still lives there?”

Ellie shakes her head. “Her and Paul have a place in Lloyd Harbor. Well, it was a family home, or something, his. Obviously.”

He makes a face at that, Ellie isn’t sure what to make of it, considering and somehow indifferent, all at once. “Nice area.”

Ellie shrugs, realising she’s a bit indifferent too. Once she started at Trinity she realised how much she loved the city and Lloyd Harbor was just…too quiet. “I guess, we go home every other weekend or so.”

“We?”

“Paul and I. Since I’m in dorms and he works here and all.”

He pauses at that, just a moment of stillness before he reaches down and grabs the bottle of champagne, pouring more into both of their cups.

“So he got you into Trinity?”

Ellie nods, “Yeah. when he first started dating my mom. Trying to impress her, I think.”

“Lloyd Harbor isn’t that far, why dorms?”

Ellie shrugs, “I mean, commuting kind of sucks. He stays here during the week as well, originally I was just going to live with him, but mom and I figured if I was going I might as well get the full experience, you know?”

“And your mom doesn’t mind that you’re gone?”

“No, not really, I mean we talk on the phone…” Ellie side-eyes him a little. “Why?”

He shrugs, “Nothing. Just don’t think I’d want to send you off into the city alone.”

“Not really alone. Paul’s here, I go home pretty frequently with him.”

“So you two spend a lot of time together?”

It’s emotionless, the way he says it, but Ellie thinks of his first reaction to Paul and can't help but think he seems…annoyed, somehow.

“I guess…” Ellie shifts beside him, debating how weird it would be to say something like, _he’s not my dad, or anything._ Or, _I came looking for you, remember._

 _That would be weird, wouldn't it?_   

Nico wipes his hands on a napkin, tossing his container into the garbage can near him and reaches for the champagne, dumping the last of it into their cheap plastic cups before easing back into the seat and dropping an arm over her shoulders.

Ellie finishes off the last piece of her dinner, wiping her hands and letting him take the garbage. When she shivers, the cold more noticeable in the absence of talking and eating, his arm pulls her a little closer.

They go quiet, watching the other people come and go, the street sounds of New York at night filling the silence between them.

Ellie bites her lip, tilting her head back and feeling the heat of his shoulder behind her head, her hair rubbing between his arm and her scalp as she tilts to catch his eyes. "Sorry about dinner."

"Don't be, that was my fault."

"I just..." she starts, looking away and trying to figure out how to explain. Nico shakes his head, leaning down to press his lips to her temple, his voice low. 

"Really, El. That was on me."

She feels his arm flex beneath her after that brief kiss of his lips, a bunching shift of his muscles, his fingers pushing lightly into her hair, making her look more directly at him. "Okay?"

Ellie nods, chewing her lip lightly. His fingers pushing lightly through her hair, a fission of nerves running through her, a prickle of heat growing. She thinks about pulling away, thinks about telling him she might be really fucked up...

But then his eyes dart to her mouth and Ellie has a moment where she thinks she might not be the only one.

Nico looks away, lifting the cup to his mouth, swallowing the remainder of his champagne before clearing his throat.

"So, how did you find out about me anyway?"

 

 

 

 

                It isn’t until they’re on the train that she realises she never really questioned where he was taking her. Just that he pulled her up from the bench and slipped his hand back in hers and Ellie let him lead her. Back uptown and down into the station, through the turnstiles and onto the subway.

It’s emptier, not _empty,_ but busy with a different sort of people.

His arm is still over her shoulders, full from food and champagne, Ellie feels lazy and lethargic, leaning into his side a little more than she thinks she should. But he’s warm and comfortable and she doesn’t feel like thinking about it; watching the stops go buy, longer than the first ride, knowing without asking that he’s taking her back to his place.

There’s a refusal somewhere inside of her, but it’s weak and not all that honest.

At the next station, a burst of laughter draws her eyes and attention. The kind of laughter that makes people look, makes them notice the loud and sharp and careless intrusion.

A group of boys, with that cocky swagger that’s more youth and ego than truth and experience. They slump into the seats across from them, four of them.

They’re loud, laughing, joking, nothing Ellie hasn’t seen before, nothing she hasn’t dealt with before. It’s New York, after all. And boys are boys, no matter the time or area. Whether brought up with a silver spoon or plastic one.  Honestly, sometimes she thinks she prefers the boys who grew up with a little less than the boys who grew up used to getting what they want.

But, boys are still boys and she can tell they’re looking at her, her legs crossed, but the hem of her dress rides high on one thigh, her legs crossed towards Nico, her heels sharp and dark.

It’s an obvious, heavy-handed looking, the kind that would make any girl sit a little straighter, but she tries to ignore them, shifting a little in her seat.

One of them winks at her. The look in his eyes one that's more skin and sex than a look meant for a subway. A look every girl knows, one that makes a girl a little more than a little uncomfortable.

Ellie ignores him, eyes moving to the map, just over and to the left of their group, trying to pretend she doesn’t notice them looking.

When she glances back at them, she sees them talking lowly to themselves except the one that winked at her, with a cocky smirk coming out as his eyes travel over her, gives her another obvious, slow look that sets her on edge. She shifts, just a little closer into Nico's side.

Nico’s arm comes up and off her shoulders, sitting straighter as he does; Ellie frowns, forced to sit straighter as well, her side cold as she watches him move, all slow and intentional. He leans forward, his forearms resting on his knees, meeting the group across from them dead on.

He doesn’t say anything, the train rolls over the tracks, conversations hum around them but the tension rockets up in their little bubble of space, notches higher the longer he stares at them. The longer neither side says anything. Ellie glances at the width of his shoulders, looking between him and watching as the boys’ attention darts between her and the man beside her.

“If you want to keep your eyes, you keep them off her.” Nico's voice is low and controlled, nearly inaudible under the roll of the subway over the tracks.

Ellie blinks, thinking she heard wrong, but she can’t see his face from the way he’s sitting, can’t see anything but his shoulders, the dark of his hair, the easy confidence in the way he sits, closing the distance between the aisles.

Can’t see anything but the boys’ faces as they take Nico in; gauging him, she guesses, can’t see what they see, but it’s obvious enough that whatever it is that’s on his face is enough for them. One of them, the one that smirked at her opens his mouth, but Nico says something else, cutting him off. His voice is too low to make out what he said, but the boy shakes his head.

Nico leans back, his arm lifting, falling back over Ellie’s shoulders like it never left. The boys stand, shuffling down the train, quieter than before.

Ellie looks at him, but when he meets her eyes it looks like nothing happened at all.

“There's a sequel to that movie you put on last time, want to see it?”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 


	6. Part One, VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Real life was hectic and I didn't want to publish a really short chapter, I am not a fan of them. 
> 
> Hope you like it, let me know what your think! :D

 

 

* * *

Chapter VI

* * *

 

 

                Ellie’s wanders the gallery, her shiny school shoes echoing a dull click sound on the floors, eyes moving over paintings and people as she walks.

Her classmates have taken the freedom and spread out like birds from a cage; flying off with notebooks in hand and a few hours to enjoy before they’re due back at the front steps. She imagines Mrs Pollard is waiting in the café, enjoying the morning reprieve from regular classes as much as the students are.

She people watches quietly, more curious to see their reactions to some pieces than to try to gauge her own. Watching couples, older, younger, other teenagers and young adults, wandering around the galleries, most with nothing more than a curious eye, an absent glance.

Others point and discuss, their voices low, their curiosity a bit more complex than just a passing eye over some colour and odd shapes. Ellie falls into step behind a couple discussing some of the pieces hoping to hear something useful as they talk about the artist.

Modern art, she thinks, isn’t quite her thing, so she understands why so many of the other visitors are quick to circle the room and head on to other galleries.

Standing in front of a splash of green, a dripping of colour splattered with a bit of white, Ellie tilts her head, trying to make sense of it. It’s…odd, but the colour is catching.

“It’s said he was painting the Mediterranean Sea.”

The voice startles her, Ellie glances at the man next to her, seeing a black button-down shirt first and looking up to see a man, dirty-blond hair with lighter, greying shades around his temples.

“Sorry?” Ellie says, blinking at him.

The man smiles, the corner of his eyes crinkling, his jaw broad and shadowed with light stubble. “The artist, Cy Twombly.”

Ellie frowns, looking back to the art hanging on the wall.

“He lived in Italy. Gaeta, I believe. I’ve never been but I’ve read that he could see the water from his studio.”

Ellie stares at the colours, her head tilting, the man’s heavy voice in her ears, some sort of accent, faded, but lingering in his tongue.

“Looks more like a forest to me,” she says, before looking back at the man, who shrugs, his shoulders shifting, a hint of tattoos along the skin visible in the open collar of his shirt, just visible as he shifts the width of his shoulders.

“It is only what I’ve read.”

Ellie nods, looking away, wandering further down the room, hearing the man’s steps in the hollows of her own. “You like this kind of art?”

He smiles, quick and humoured. “I confess I don’t think I have much of an understanding of modern art.”

Ellie smiles, a quick thing. “No, I don’t think I do either. Though I like this more than the…those modern sculptures. You know, installations?”

He nods, stopping as she does, just past the series of green paintings that are supposed to be the Mediterranean. Or something.

“I do like the colours sometimes though.”

It’s a canvas of muted greys and greens, splashed with yellow and black. “Looks a bit like the city, you know, those blurry pictures taken through glass when it’s raining.”

The man is quiet for a moment too long and Ellie bites her cheek, feeling embarrassed she said anything, thinking it was a pretty stupid analogy.

“It looks like a forest fire to me. A dying one.”

She looks at him, catching his profile, a strong thing that matches his body. When he turns to look at her, Ellie looks away, feeling her cheeks going warm for being caught looking.

“I see it,” she says. “The grey, it looks a bit like smoke.”

“For someone not really into modern art, you seem to be taking it in well,” he says, nodding at the workbook she has in her hand.

Ellie half smiles, shrugging a little. “It’s for class, we’re on a trip. Art and Art History, you know?”

He nods, eyes moving down to her notebook. “I figured as much, there are a few of you, all dressed in the same uniform. Notebooks, as well,” he smirks, teasing, “Though you seem to be one of the few actually looking at the art.”

“Wanted to get it done,” she says, smiling as they wander down to the next painting. Or not painting so much as squares stuck into the wall. Ellie makes a face at it, nose scrunching. “This is the stuff I don’t think I understand.”

The man gives a low laugh, a quiet sound to match the quiet of the gallery. “No, I’m not sure if we’re supposed to. More for the critics and connoisseurs than the everyday man. Or woman.”

They fall quiet again, moving along, heading towards the next room.

Seeing as she’s been behind the same couple for the last few rooms, Ellie doesn’t give much thought to him following her, forgetting he’s there a few times as she jots notes down on a few different artists.

When she hears him again, she finds him standing much the same way as when she first noticed him. His hands in his pockets, head turned slightly down towards her; watching as Ellie takes in the room, the slanted glass ceiling letting in the overcast, but still bright day.

It’s a bit…odd and Ellie, looks away again, feeling moderately comforted by the fact they’re in public.

“Have you ever been here before?”

Ellie shakes her head, glancing around the room again. “Nope, surprisingly. I’ve been going to school here for a few years but I’ve never come. You?”

“Years ago,” he says, stepping nearer again, as they take in the room. “Came visiting once a long time ago now, but recently I’ve been looking for a place here in the city. Thought I’d like a change.”

“In Manhattan?” Ellie asks, wondering where he’s from.

“Or something near here, any recommendations?”

Ellie laughs. “Well, I live on a campus, so I’m not the best person to ask. But the city is expensive, that’s all I know.”

“I’m not concerned about money.”

Ellie cuts a look at him, her eyes flicking over him, there’s something about him that reminds him of Nico, though she thinks it’s the clothes, the stature, that easy, confident way they carry themselves. A well-built man.

Though he’s older than Nico, that much she can tell. And Nico is… stupidly attractive.

Ellie shakes her head as thoughts of her fath— of him swell up inside of her, tongue darting out as a little warmth spills in her stomach, pushing her lips together to shove the feeling away. Memories of their not-date night, the quiet goodnight, the scent of his cologne when he leant down to kiss her cheek.

The way he threatened those boys on the train… because he did threaten them, didn’t he? Just for looking at her.

“Have you been in New York long?” she asks, looking for a distraction, butterflies swirling in her stomach.

He shakes his head, following quietly as they move along to the next room. Ellie passes by a few of her classmates, smiling at a few, ignoring Ethan and his friends, lounging on a bench they pass by.

His _Hey, El, come hang out—_  follows her into the next room, the man silent behind her, the couple still in front of them, hands clasped as the woman points at a painting.

“Friends of yours?”

Ellie snorts. “No. Just kids I go to school with. Kinda jerks, really.”

“Ah,” he says eyes circling the room, moving over paintings and people, Ellie stealing a glance at him while he’s distracted.

She should probably lose him soon, she thinks, there’s only so long to make idle chitchat with a stranger before it starts to get weird. And really, she doesn’t know why he’s talking to her.

Well, she can guess, because men are men and it’s not like she’s never had to deal with overly friendly customers at The Roastery.

She winces a little, hoping she’s wrong, he doesn’t give off the creepy, _hey baby, come here often_ vibe, thinking about her phone, about Mya, who abandoned her for food, wondering if she should text her for a ‘rescue.’

Ellie shakes her head, he hasn’t done anything, she tells herself, hasn’t even really looked at her overmuch, just made small talk. And while she’s aware he’s older and she’s obviously, very obviously not…he hasn’t done anything outright to make her uncomfortable.

Deciding to give it a bit longer before trying to lose him, Ellie keeps her pace steady along his…figuring he’s bound to get bored soon anyway. There’s only so much small talk to be had with her.

“Most of your class is in groups,” the man says, as Ellie writes down thoughts on a Clyfford Still painting.

It’s not really a question, the way he says it. But Ellie answers anyway. “My partner decided sleep was more important than breakfast, and now she’s regretting it…she went to find food.”

“Ah,” he nods, looking over her shoulder at her notes. “Have you been to any of the other sections yet?”

Ellie shakes her head, “Figured I’d start where I was supposed to, see how far I got.”

“Good idea. Doesn’t seem like many of your class feels the same.”

Ellie laughs a little, “Yeah, well, they gave us a few hours without supervision. That’s a lot of freedom for us.”

He gives her another eye-crinkling grin, a low laugh. “Temptation is hard to turn away from.”

“Especially when you go to a private school,” Ellie smiles, finishing off her note and starting to walk again.

“You should spend some time in the classics before you go,” the man says, his voice low, Ellie wonders what that accent is but thinks it’s rude to ask. “It might help you with your work, seeing the realism and structure and how it gives way to…” he lifts a hand, Ellie catches sight of ink on his arm, a dark smear beneath the rolled sleeves of his button down. “This.”

“You sound like you know more about this than you let on,” Ellie smiles at him over his shoulder and he shrugs, scratching his jaw.

“I know a little about a lot of things,” he says, accent lingering on the L’s a little. “Just enough to—”

“El!”

Ellie turns towards the voice, her name cutting loud over the room, Mya heading her way as she enters the room, cutting a path towards her, her grin wide and teeth white against the tan of her skin. Looking much more energized than she had that morning, moaning and groaning towards the bus.

“The muffins here are like six dollars! Can you believe that!” she complains, falling into place beside Ellie.

“Yes, it’s café in a gallery, it’s like a gift shop, of course it’s expensive.”

“It wasn’t even that good, I had to buy a latte too, just to get it down.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s the only reason you bought a latte,” Ellie laughs. “And not that you were drooling on my shoulder on the bus ride over.”

At Mya’s indignant squawk, Ellie laughs harder, and it isn’t until the other girl is flipping through Ellie’s notebook that she thinks to look back at the man she had been walking with—

But he’s gone and she doesn’t see him again even when she looks through the crowds that grow as the day goes on.

 

 

* * *

 

  
 

                Fall settles in crisp colours and cool breezes, chasing away the last of the summer heat as October settles onto the city.

Halloween decorations start appearing, posters going up for a school dance and an after party for all ages at O’Malley’s that same night that gets spread through text and social media.

Through it all, Nico is a constant thought in her mind, a constant distraction every time her phone buzzes, every time she sees him, leaning against one of his cars, waiting for her with a smile.

 

 

                “I just have to pick something up at Elysium,” Nico says, turning downtown instead of east like he normally does when he picks her up. “Then we’ll hit the market.”

Ellie nods, thumb moving over her phone as she responds to Mya’s fifth text about asking Nico to get them into Elysium.

 

> _I’m not asking him that!_

A series of emojis ping and ping and Ellie turns her phone onto vibrate when Nico glances at her lap.

 

> _Ellllie! Pleeeease  
>  _

“Everything all right there?”

“It’s just Mya,” Ellie sighs, typing back with another _no, no way._

She can’t deny she’s curious about the club, can’t say she doesn’t want to know more, to see what’s inside, but at the same time, she isn’t sure she really does. Isn’t sure she’s ready to know if it really is some sort of backroom sex club like some rumours say it is.

Ellie glances at his profile while he drives, watching the ease of his body, the flex of his hand on the gearshift.

“Driving stick in the city seems kinda stupid,” she teases, as they stop again in traffic.

He snorts, looking over at her, amused and smiling and stupidly, stupidly attractive with his collar loose and tie gone already. “Maybe. But I actually prefer it. It’s how I was taught, feels more like I’m in control, you know?”

Ellie shrugs because she can’t really even drive so she doesn’t have an opinion at all. “I’ll take your word on that.”

“Can’t drive?” he teases.

“A little, Paul showed me a bit, but…” she shrugs. “Don’t really need to, not living in New York.”

Nico doesn’t answer, his hand tightening on the stick as he switches lanes, jaw tensing. Ellie almost wants to ask if he knows Paul, because there’s something about him Nico obviously does not like.

 “I could show you, take you upstate, I have some property we could use.”

“Of course you do,” Ellie laughs. “Hamptons?”

“We have property there too,” he grins, whatever momentary irritation he had gone again.

 _We?_ Ellie thinks with a little frown.

“Family beach house, typical Hampton fare, but I have one in Montauk where it’s a little less…social.”

And for the first time, with a bit of surprise, she realises she never considered the fact that he must have a family, that, by proxy, she does too.

“Oh,” Ellie breathes out, trying and failing to picture his family, wondering if she has grandparents, uncles, cousins she never knew about.

Nico doesn’t add anything more, pulling over at a curbside and undoing his belt. When Ellie moves to do the same, he stops her, hand covering hers.

“I’ll just be a minute, nothing more, wait here.” He’s out of the car and gone before she can say anything, wanting to tag along just to see what it’s like inside, since last time she’d not really been paying attention, too nervous, too strung out on the idea of him to really take it in at all.

There are no bouncers outside, the building dark bricked and modern looking with heavy glass doors that get pushed open by a dark-suited man waiting inside.

Ellie watches them speak for a second, Nico’s dark-haired head tilting towards the vehicle where Ellie is waiting, fighting the urge to follow him in anyway.

The other man nods as Nico heads inside, but instead of disappearing with him, the man lingers outside and Ellie realises he’s watching the car…or her.

Frowning, Ellie slumps in the seat, watching the security guard or whatever he is, watch her.

It’s not more than a few minutes before Nico’s back, a slim, black folder in his hand, slipping back into the driver’s seat and twisting to drop the folder on the back seat before looking at her as the car purrs to life.

“Did you decide what you wanted for dinner?”

 

 

 

                Nico lets her into the apartment, the grocery bags rustling as he holds the door open. Ellie holding her own brown bag to her chest, setting it on the counter as he sets his own beside hers. The folder follows, dropped beside the bags, a dark smudge that Ellie itches to open just out of pure curiosity.

His phone goes off, a low vibration that’s audible in the quiet. Nico pulls his phone out with one hand, unpacking with the other.

Thumbing it on, he answers absently, turning away from her as starts loading items into the fridge. “No, I’m not coming, I told you, I’m busy tonight.”

She feels weird listening, intruding on a phone call, even though she’s kind of curious as to what he was supposed to be doing instead of spending the evening with her.

“I already picked it up, I’ll let you know.”

But she feels too weird standing there listening, so she heads upstairs, thinking to use the washroom, still having not explored his apartment much yet, and only really knowing his room and the room they’ve been watching movies in. She’s sure there must be other washrooms, but she isn’t going to go snooping for them and he hasn’t said anything about her using this one, so she figures it’s okay.

Upstairs, she edges into his bedroom, trying not to be too nosey but she can’t help but steal a glance around the room again, curiosity getting the better of her as she heads towards the bathroom. It’s as neat and clean as it was last time, though having only really seen it that first day and once in the dark last weekend when it had been late and there were only lights from the city to light the room so she can only guess this is how he keeps it.

She doesn’t look overlong at anything, feeling like she should probably just ask where another bathroom is so she doesn’t invade his personal space all the time.

Ellie shuts the bathroom door quietly behind her, the room lit by the city lights and the blue tint of dusk. After flushing, she looks at herself in the mirror, standing in front of one of the two sinks set into the counter, the long mirror on the wall in front of her.

She rights her leggings, her worn-soft school hoody, her clothes tugged on quickly as she headed out the door, Mya’s teasing following her into the hallway.

Now she wishes Nico had given her a bit more of a heads up than a text at four saying, _pick you up in thirty._ Not that she cares, exactly, but racing back to dorms and out of her uniform didn’t give her much time to be picky about her clothes.

Still, it would have been nice to look a little more…presentable as they wandered through the Whole Foods Market before he brought her back here. She realises now, looking at herself in the mirror, how young she must have looked next to him, and why the older lady hadn’t been anything but sweet and full of smiles for what she must have assumed was a father and daughter—

Which, _they are,_ Ellie reminds herself, so the woman wasn’t exactly wrong…but her stomach sours a little at the thought anyway, in a way that Ellie doesn’t really want to examine at the moment, just why she’s so annoyed by that assumption.

In the mirror, Ellie fixes her hair a little, unbraiding the worn-loose braid and re-braiding it over her shoulder. Checking her mascara, Ellie leans forward, then away, telling herself he doesn’t give a shit what she looks like.

Turning away from her reflection, she thinks to give Nico more time and privacy on the phone and wanders over to the glass wall ahead of her; taking another minute to look out over the streets below, the moving cars and the other towering glass and stone building around them. The rooftops of smaller buildings below. The green of Central Park, tinted with oranges, yellows and reds as fall adds more colours to the trees.

As she turns away, she looks at the bathtub, moving towards it with a little laugh and a headshake.

_This place is ridiculous._

It’s a massive, rounded thing set marble, two steps up and the porcelain white of the tub shines at her in the low light. Big enough and deep enough that Ellie imagines she could swim in it if it was full. She climbs the two steps, walking around the narrow ledge of the tub to get closer to the view, the city to the east a few shades darker, lights glowing as the sun sinks further and further into the west behind her.

She can’t help but think how amazing it would be to take a bath with that view; the lights dimmed, the city glowing… a hot chest behind her—

Pulling away from that thought quickly and blowing out a little breath, Ellie rests her hand on the glass and thinks about the fact that she only gets to see him today before she has to head home for the weekend and she isn’t going to ruin it by thinking about—

About _that._

_Any of that._

There’s a knock behind her that startles her out of her thoughts completely, her stomach tightening with some mix of guilt and nerves and something fluttery-warm too at the sound of Nico’s voice rolling through the quiet.

“Ellie?”

“Your tub is ridiculous!” she calls, her voice bouncing off marble and tile, aiming for something easy and light, hoping she doesn’t sound as strung tight as she suddenly feels.

She catches sight of him in the mirror, his head peeking in before he steps in, crossing the bathroom quietly in socked feet. He smiles at her, a crooked thing full of something entertained and _fond_ , as she stands on the tub ledge

Ellie looks at him over her shoulder. “The view is really amazing from here,” she says, ignoring the warmth spreading in her at the sight of him coming closer, at whatever it is in his eyes as he watches her.

“It is,” he agrees, stepping up to the ledge. “Part of the reason I bought this place.”

Her hand leaves a smear on the glass she tries to wipe away with the sleeve of her hoodie when she looks back out over the city.

 “Don’t worry about it.”

Ellie rubs at it anyway, stepping away from the glass and looking back at the tub. “I think I could swim in it…actually, I bet you could swim in it.”

“Don’t know, I’ve never used it.”

“You’ve never—” she blinks at him, her mouth opening. “Seriously?”

He shrugs, his smile pulling wider. “Do I look like the kind of guy who relaxes in a bath?”

“I didn’t know there was a look needed for enjoying baths,” Ellie laughs, walking along the edge and closer to him, the marble cold beneath her feet. “I thought it was a universal sort of thing.”

“Maybe, can’t say I know many men who take baths though,” he offers as Ellie stands in front of him, a little above him, barely an inch and his eyes flick down as if he realises it as she does. “Mostly girls—”

Ellie scoffs, ready to deny it but Nico steps closer, setting his hands on her hips, wide and warm, his thumbs heavy on her hip bones. It makes her heart thump a little faster, the heat and the span of them, her mind flickering to the brief, image-filled fantasy of a bathtub and wet skin.

“ _Mostly_ girls,” he says again, lifting a brow, teasing. “Or couples. You know, romance, candles…what else, roses?”

“Bubble bath,” Ellie laughs, setting her hands on his shoulders. “Champagne.”

“Strawberries,” he grins, his hands a gentle weighted pull, urging her closer into him; an inching pull like magnets, her hands edging more along the warmth of his shoulders, body heat closing in. Ellie thinks about skin, about muscles, about the flickering glance of his eyes at her mouth last weekend.

“Sounds like Pretty Woman.”

“I’ll get you a Walkman too, how’s that?”

“You’ve seen Pretty Woman?”

“I think everyone has seen Pretty Woman,” he says, taking a smaller step closer, his hands shifting, turning into his arms circling her, the closing distance letting Ellie circle her arms around his shoulders, bringing their faces closer together. “I could probably find it on a movie channel right now.”

“I’d rather just have a bath,” Ellie grins as his arms tighten more, the last inch of the bath ledge colder beneath her toes, making her shiver compared to the heat of his body, the heated weight of his…hug.

Because it’s a hug, isn’t it. That’s what they’re doing. _Hugging._

“You can have one if you want.”

“What, right now?”

“Of course, if that’s what you want.”

Ellie laughs. Trying not to blurt out, _how about a bath together._ “No, I didn’t mean…that’s weird, I’m not having a bath in your tub.”

“Why not?” he frowns, curious, searching her face. “Is there something wrong with it?”

“It’s your place,” Ellie edges, not sure what to say. “Your bedroom, your bathroom. I think…I don’t know. It’d be weird.”

“I don’t think it’s weird. It’s just a bath.”

Ellie shrugs. “It’s your personal space.”

“I’m not concerned with my personal space, sweetheart. At least not with you,” he tightens his arms a little, as if Ellie forgot he was still holding her. Like he’s saying, _see?_

Ellie isn’t sure what to say to that, so she shrugs again. Leaning forward and closing the distance between them, not able to meet his eyes while the images in her head are hands and wet skin and the thick weight of his muscles around her.

She drops her head onto his shoulder, feeling his pulse, steady and rhythmic against her cheek as his arms wrap tighter, holding her closer; his heart thumping against the hard of his chest, pressed right up against hers.

She wonders how fucked up it is to want to know what it would feel like without the layers of her clothes on.

One of his hands travels up her back, a slow wide palm, the hug somehow tighter even one-handed, his hand rubbing a lazy circle before travelling back down to her hip.

“El—” he starts, but cuts off, his head turning into the curve of her neck and shoulder. A moment where his hand tightens and then he’s untangling them, his hands on her hips, lifting her up and setting her on the floor. Ellie feels colder, a shiver travelling through her in the absence of his body heat.

He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his throat working as he swallows before he gives her a quick smile.

“We should get going on dinner before I get lazy and order in.”

Ellie nods, because that was the whole point of shopping earlier, wasn’t it? Ellie teasing him about always picking up food and Nico denying not being able to cook for himself.

He’d been well prepared to defend himself, taking her to the Whole Foods on 3rd and letting Ellie pick out snacks, things for _her_ and not just for them.

He leads her out of the bathroom, back down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“You know,” Ellie says as she opens the fridge, filling the quiet that settled between them into something thick and too warm to deal with. “I sort of assumed your fridge would be like… beer and take out.”

He chuckles at that, the tension easing. “Not a big fan of beer,” he smirks, setting a hand on his stomach. “And you know, gotta watch my figure.”

“I think you're okay in that department,” Ellie drawls, not really realising what she’s saying until it’s out of her mouth. “I mean. You know—”

He laughs as Ellie turns away, facing the cool glow of the fridge, reaching in for the mixed greens, the chicken they’d just bought and some tomatoes.

Nico takes the chicken and if he notices her flush, he doesn’t say anything; setting the chicken on the counter, Ellie watches him peel off his jacket, his tie, rolling his sleeves over his forearms with a practised ease that does _nothing_ to her, his fingers long and the muscles of his forearms flexing.

 She steals a glass from the cupboard, eyeing the alcohol she can see on a bar in the living room, but decides on the sparkling water in his fridge instead. The water is lemon flavoured and it bubbles on the way down, distracting her from watching the shift of his shoulders and the width of his back as he peels the chicken out of the package, rinsing it and setting it on a cutting board.

“Can I help with anything?”

“You can pour us a drink if you’d like, you don’t need to drink water if you don’t want to,” he smirks over his shoulder like he knows what Ellie had been thinking.

Taking a moment to clear her head away from watching his shoulders as he slips a glinting silver knife out of a knife rack and starts cutting the chicken, Ellie passes by the area with a heavy farm-wood table, over to the other section that’s nearer the windows.

The sky is nearly fully dark, the glow of the city brighter, the lights closer on this level. Outside on the balcony, a pool gives off a shimmering blue glow as the lights under the surface come on.

Turning away from the glass, Ellie looks over the open space; are two leather couches, one large and in an ‘L’ shape and another smaller one closer to the windows. There’s another TV, an entertainment system of some sort and a fireplace, empty but stocked with wood beneath the wall mounted screen.

It’s oddly cozy, despite the size of the place; the white rug, large and square and soft beneath her feet.

Resisting the urge to explore more, she heads back to the bar area, peering over some records and flicking on an iPod already connected to the system.

It’s jazz, or something similar, she guesses; slow and melodic. If Nico cares that she’s touching things he doesn’t say anything when Ellie glances over, sending her a crooked smile as the smell of roasting chicken fills the loft as well as the slow notes of the music.

“Aren’t you going to close your pool?” Ellie calls, loud enough to travel over the music.

“Eventually. It’s warmed though. Feel free to take a look.”

Ellie debates it only for a second but settles on searching his bar for something to drink. She realises she has no idea what to get him, but he calls it out to her, a bottle of something amber, a name she can’t pronounce, a few fingerfuls in a tumbler.

Ellie settles on pouring a bit of vodka into a glass, some cranberry juice and lime.

“Your bar is a bit ridiculous too,” she says, as she sets the tumbler beside his hand on the counter, leaning her back against the counter to watch him cook; tomatoes and garlic and chicken roasting together in the pan.

He huffs, “Is there anything of mine you don’t think is ridiculous?”

Ellie shakes her head, smile growing, hiding it in her drink. “Nope.”

_Everything about you is ridiculous too._

“You’re like…every corny modern romance novel come to life. The bad ones you know. The self-made millionaires, billionaires, CEO’s at twenty-five.”

He snorts, a teasing look sent her way, swallowing a mouthful of alcohol as he eyes her. “You sound familiar with the subject, guilty reading material, sweetheart?”

Ellie flushes because _everyone_ has read _some._ “No, not like…no, I just mean…everyone knows how it goes in those books.”

“Like Fifty Shades? Want to see my red room?”

Ellie laughs, can’t catch it. “Secret sex dungeon?”

“The dungeon is in the basement, this one is the light version. You know, don’t want to scare anyone off right away.”

He’s joking, she knows, can see it in his face, in the way he says it. “How considerate of you.”

He nods, smile widening. “Thank you, I try.”

“But really though, I mean, this place is a bit ridiculous, and your cars are ridiculous and you, of course.”

“Well…” he trails off, thinking, eyeing her as he does it. “I can assure you I’m not entirely self-made, not a CEO and not twenty-five.”

He pauses.

“And I definitely don’t have a red room, just to clarify.”

Ellie laughs, shaking her head, watching him spread the chicken and tomatoes over the mixed greens on two plates on the counter. “Good to know.”

Pulling out cutlery and napkins while laughing, Nico tilts his head towards the balcony. “Want to eat outside?”

 

                On the balcony the night is settled in, the city a glowing, otherworldly thing this high up. Despite the light pollution of the city, this high up the sky seems much darker than it does from the ground.

There’s a small table near the pool and Nico sets the plates down on it, chair scraping over the ground, bringing their seats closer together.

Ellie sets the drinks and cutlery down, settling into the chair next to him. The music travels faintly through the open door, the city sounds below them, the night chilly, cold tipped but her sweater is warm enough to fend it off.

Ellie takes a bite, smiling around her mouthful. “Alright,” she grins at him, his eyes on her, waiting. “So you can cook.”

He laughs, his teeth white and dimples deep. Ellie gives him back the same smile.

 

 

 

               Ellie plops down on the couch gracelessly, crossing her legs and leaning against Nico’s side absent mindedly, digging her spoon into the little container of coconut ice cream she had eyed at the market that has _somehow_ ended up in the cart.

Nico’s flipping through Netflix rows, scanning titles, eyeing her occasionally to gauge her reaction to a title.

“I don’t care, it’s your choice this time,” Ellie says around another spoonful.

When he settles on Pretty Woman and lifts a brow at her, Ellie laughs, elbowing him in the side, but he only grins, stealing the spoon and a bite of ice cream and picking something else.

“Hey!”

He shrugs, his mouth crooked with humour, eyes lit by the glow of the television in the low light of the room as the movie starts.

Ellie tries not to think about his mouth as they share the ice cream, tries not to think about his arm around her, tries not to think about how easy it all is despite….

Despite _everything_.

 

 

 

 

                Ellie breathes in; warm air and a familiar spiced smell.

Cologne, she realises distantly.

It isn’t until she blinks, turning her face into the soft, hard heat beneath her cheek, her eyelids heavy, her limbs overwarm from sleep and body heat, that she realises she can hear the slow, steady beat of a heart beneath her ear. That she’s tangled up in Nico’s body, one leg stretched out along his, the other curled high, crossing over his ribs, one of his hands a wide, heated brand settled on her skin.

It’s a slow awareness, a slow return of reality, a sleepy blink or two, nerves spreading through her, making her skin pebble, over-aware of her body pressed against his, all the heat and hard plains she’s curved into.

His hand, spread wide and warm across her lower back, beneath the sleep-risen edges of her t-shirt. It’s all she can focus on, his hands on her skin, her heartbeat ticking up, turning her face more into his chest, trying to focus on her own breathing and not on how much of her his hands cover.

But, beneath her sleep-heavy body, Ellie feels the slow tensing of his body; his chest shifting higher as he pulls in a deeper breath and then another, waking up in inches, just like she did.

 And then his hand moves, lifting off her thigh, Ellie watches him lift his arm, running a hand through his hair she guesses. But she’s too afraid to move, to let him know she’s awake. Too afraid to admit she didn’t move away right away like she thinks she probably should have.

 “Shit—”

It’s a low rumble, a chest deep sound that echoes beneath her ear like it’s more vibration than noise at all. His voice sleep-rough, his hand floating above her thigh.

The light from the television paints the room in a dull blue light, making everything feel like a dream, like a half-awake twisting of the mind. Like she’s not really here, his hand isn’t really on her lower back, palm hot, fingers long, thumb stroking against her skin once, before stopping.

Like this is all just a twisted little dream inside of her head.

With her eyes slow-blinking, fatigue still clinging on, Ellie watches the hesitation of his hand, just a moment of it before it drifts back down to her thigh again. A light touch, barely there, like he was going to push her leg off his waist but…

Ellie doesn’t know what to do, wants to curl her fingers onto his shirt and let him know she’s awake, wants him to keep touching her, wants him to touch more of her, wants him to let her touch more of him…more than just the solid warmth of his shirt-covered chest beneath her hand.

Mostly, she just wants him not to move, wants to stay exactly the way they are and not think about anything but how nice it feels exactly where she is and ignore reality a little bit longer.

Nico’s hand settles heavier, hesitantly, ounce by ounce, from fingertips to palm to a weighted touch, his thumb brushing along the curve of her thigh, a slow caress as his hand moves towards her hip.

And then he stops, the heat of his hand building a licking flame inside of her that grows hotter as she looks at how much of her thigh his hand covers.

Her heartbeat kicks, double-times, and it takes every ounce of Ellie’s self-control to not move, to keep her breathing steady, even though she thinks he must feel the hummingbird beat of her pulse if he is paying any sort of attention.

“Ellie?” he breathes it out, sleep-rough, his other hand tightening on her lower back, arm tensing beneath her.

With her heart thudding, Ellie can’t make herself answer, mind spinning fantasies she can’t make sense of, where his hands cover more of her, where she’s gasping a name, his name, as he moves over top of her.

She stays silent, her teeth sunk into cheek, watching his hand on her thigh, watching as it climbs higher, her heart beating some staccato beat against her ribs as he reaches her hip, fingertips slipping along her skin, her shirt rucked up between them. He grips onto her hip, pushing as he does, his arm coming out from beneath her, her leg coming off of him as he shifts and turns—

Ellie closes her eyes, too afraid to admit she’s been awake this whole time, even though she thinks he must know.

And between them, even as she’s hyper-focused on his hand on her skin, his thumb brushing up the bone of her hip, fingers splayed, reaching the curve of her spine, Ellie feels something hard, something hot against her thigh as Nico shifts onto his side.

It’s only a brush, not long enough to know for sure, because his hand leaves her hip, bracing on the couch as he pushes up and levers himself over her.

She expects him to leave, but she can feel his eyes on her, the weight of him looking at her as he crouches beside the couch…and then his hand is on her cheek, brushing her hair away from her face, his thumb smoothing over her cheekbone as his fingers slip along her jaw toward her neck, over her pulse as it beats against his hand before trailing down her neck, over her shoulder and bracing on the cushion as he leans closer, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Non so che cazzo sto facendo con voi,” he mutters, low and rough and nearly too quiet to catch.

And then he’s gone. The couch shifting one last time as pulls away.

Ellie turns onto her side, curling up, turning her face into the couch back, finding it smells like him, that _she_ smells like him—

Ellie breathes heavy, hot air into the fabric of the couch, her body hot; crossing her legs and willing the ache between her legs to fade away as she listens to him cross the loft, a distant door shutting above her, the creak, rush of water along pipes.

She has to curl her fingers, her nails scraping the fabric, itching to sink a hand between her legs, her mind full up of shame and slick fantasies all weighted by the heavy press of Nico’s body shifting on top of hers, sinking inside of her, again and again and—

 

 

 

                It’s raining.

The water rivulets gather and flow over the glass walls of Nico’s loft. Ellie watches it, wrapped up in her sweater again, feeling half-awake, half-real, like she’s in some sort of snow globe but it’s water and not snowflakes falling around her.

When she hears the creak of the floor, the sound of Nico, _of her father,_ coming down the stairs, Ellie feels her body stiffen, a slow calcifying of her spine, like she’s bracing for something, like she’s afraid he’s going to tell her that none of it’s okay, that she shouldn’t, that he wasn’t, that he didn’t mean—

But she feels him step closer, the very faint reflection of his body in the glass. “I have to get back to campus,” she says, breaking the quiet, watching the rain spread ripples in the pool a few feet away. “I’m…Paul is…picking me up.”

There’s a shift of a darker spot in the reflection on the glass, him nodding, she guesses, and his hand touches her hip, over her sweater, his body heat closer, warmer for nothing more than second as he leans down to press a kiss to the top of her head.

She thinks he meant it to be…a comfort, something easing, but all it feels is placating, _parental,_ like he’s reminding her that there are lines and boundaries and very real realities to the origins of their relationship. To the origins of _Ellie._

 

 

 

                They don’t speak. The windshield wipers beat a steady, streaking sound over the glass. Ellie watches the blurred city go by, watches colours bleed along the rivulets, the shifting lights and people blurring and bleeding together.

Her teeth have been buried in her cheek so long she has indents along the inside, biting back her embarrassment, her shame, her curling bit of slick, uncomfortable arousal still clinging to her body.

She wants to tell him she was awake, wants to keep pretending she wasn’t. Wants to ask him what he said. Wants to pretend nothing is wrong with her. Wants to ask him why he touched her. If he was hard this morning when he woke up next to her. Wants to ask him if he thinks half the things she does, if they—

If—

 

                  The green of Trinity campus appears too quickly and not soon enough, all at once. Her hand is on the door handle before the car even stops, the car stifling in the silence, the wipers steady rhythm making her irritation grow, making the silence all that more deafening.

“Ellie, wait,” he starts, reaching out for her arm as she cracks the door, rain hitting her hand before he’s leaning, reaching across her body to shut it again.

Ellie thinks not to look at him, to avoid him and whatever conversation he wants to have because she’s suddenly terrified she’s completely wrong and he doesn’t—

That she’s the only one feeling these things and he’s going to shoot her down.

She swallows, staring out the window and sinking her teeth into her lip; his hand tightens on her arm and he tugs, just a little, urging her to look at him.

When she does…his face isn’t what she expected at all.

His eyes search hers, wary, something strung tight in him in a way she hasn’t seen because Nicolas Cordova never seems anything other than perfectly at ease and confident in everything he does.

“If I ever do anything that makes you uncomfortable—”

“You didn’t—” Ellie blurts, a rush of denial, fear easing out of her like a too long held breath when his words aren’t _this is wrong_. “I mean— I… you didn’t…Don’t.”

Nico searches her face like he’s making sure and Ellie thinks _fuck it,_ the relief that he was _nervous_ about this morning, just like she was, eases something inside of her and she’s leaning across the seat before she can stop herself. He catches her, as her arms circle his shoulders, tucking her face into the crook of his neck, his arms circling her back, pulling her awkwardly over the console as far as she can go without him pulling her into his lap.

It’s an awkward angle and she thinks about climbing the rest of the way, clambering into his lap and demanding a straight answer…but she doesn’t think she’s ready to say it out loud yet.

She isn’t sure if either one of them are. Because Nico says her name into her shoulder, his chest vibrating with how low his voice goes as he says it, his arms almost too tight as he presses his mouth to the side of her neck. A weird mix of her name and a kiss.

“Blow your mother off and spend the weekend with me.”

 “I can’t,” Ellie mumbles into his neck, clinging on for another moment before leaning back, knowing she really does have to go. That Paul might already be looking for her and the last thing she wants to do is try to explain _any_ of this to _anyone. Especially_ when it could end up getting back to her mother.

“I…” she hesitates, searching his face, watching his eyes move over her, waiting for her to finish. “I kind of blew them off last weekend because of the d— because you took me out.”

“Well,” his lips quirk, a little humoured, fond half-smile that grows into a quick wide thing when he turns and glances out the window like he’s thinking something over. He doesn’t say anything for another moment, the quiet settling into the patter of raindrops on the hood. “That makes me feel mildly better about wanting to kidnap you.”

Ellie laughs, the sound bright in the confined space, feeling the tension ease out of her.

Nico leans forward again, closing the space between them, his lips touching her cheek, his thumb sliding along her jawbone, her chin, the rough pad scraping beneath her bottom lip.

Ellie’s lips part and they share air for a second, before he presses another kiss, just to the corner of her mouth, his lips soft and hot, his voice quiet and rough.

“Next weekend.”

Ellie nods, fighting the urge to turn her head, to close the space between their lips into some infinitesimal thing.

Pulling away and settling back into his seat, Nico runs a hand through his hair watching as Ellie does the same, righting the climbing hem of her sweater

“Go on, sooner you go the sooner you get back,” he says, giving her a crooked smile and nodding towards the campus.

Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, Ellie nods again, voice stuck in her throat; turning to slip out of the car, the rain a steady stream beating against her hoodie as she pulls it up and makes her way across the field, not looking back despite knowing he’s still idling at the curb and watching her until she’s out of sight.

 

 

 

 (In the shower, her fingers slick on tile, her fingers slick on her clit, Ellie doesn’t think about anything but lets her mind fill up with images of hands and shoulders and a body on top of hers and a voice saying her name—

She breathes into the steam, the humid, hot air and lets her mind flow away, careless and electrified for a few minutes until her fingertips are squeaking on the tile and her knees are jello and she’s leaning her forehead on cooler tile and swallowing the swell of a quiet shame as she washes away the slick of it beneath the beat of the shower water.)

 

 

 

             The windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm, back and forth across the glass, clearing the heavier downpour of raindrops. The car door shuts behind her, the radio low and playing some slow tune that reminds her of the night before, of the comfort of his apartment, how easy it feels—

“Where were you this morning?” Paul glances at her while he pulls out of the parking lot.

Ellie wipes the lingering water off her hands, over her jeans, tugging off her hood, thinking about Nico’s hand, about the heat of his body pressed against hers, about his hands on her skin, about his grip on her hip. About his lips, right next to hers.

“In the athletic centre,” she lies, clicking her seatbelt into place as her heartbeat ticks up at the question. “Why?”

“I came to get you in dorms, no one answered.”

Ellie shrugs, willing her nerves to settle. “Mya was probably still asleep.”

Paul nods at that, his face turning to watch the road, merging into traffic, heading east towards Lloyd Harbor. “I was going to take you to breakfast, but I guess we’ll just pick something up for the ride.”

She eyes him for a moment, wondering if he believes her, wondering if she cares that he might not… wondering if it matters at all.

She didn’t do anything wrong. They didn’t do anything wrong.

Ellie knows what she wants is…is wrong in a very real way, but—

But they didn’t do anything, and even if, _if_ he feels anything like she does then… then _nothing_ , the lines are still being drawn, the lines defining who she is to him and who he is to her. And they haven’t done anything, not really.

And if, _if_ , what she felt this morning, brushing against her hip when he was easing out from beside her on the couch, _if_ that was what she thinks it is then…

Ellie tries not to think about it, about the images in her head, about, the too warm, too early, too quiet moment where the roles of reality fell away and it was easy to imagine that he was hard for her and she isn’t the only one feeling these things. That she isn’t the only one slinking off and into a shower to find a little bit of release beneath the heat of a shower.

Turning to face the window, Ellie toes off her shoes, bringing her feet up onto the seat and dropping her head onto her knees. Beneath her nose, as she watches the rain trail down the window, the city a blur of colours and dripping lights, the faint smell of his cologne still stuck on the soft of her hoodie.

Her phone buzzes in her hoodie pocket, Ellie slips it out, glancing at the message popping up on the screen.

 

> _Pick you up Monday after school, 430._

She scrapes her teeth over her bottom lip, holding in a smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non so che cazzo sto facendo con voi--  
> I don't know what the fuck I'm doing with you


	7. Part One, VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop, here goes another one!

 

 

* * *

Chapter VII

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

                Lloyd Harbor seems to get quieter every time Ellie visits.

And it’s _weird_ , she thinks, to feel like a visitor in her mother’s house, but there’s no part of her childhood here. Her childhood is on the slightly uneven, older roads of New Rochelle, the tall, narrow house her grandmother still lives in and, more recently the city. Upper West Side.

The sights and sounds, the way the city swallowed her whole, the way she’s just another body in the thriving mass of people moving through their days.

She supposes that it doesn’t help that the house is less a house than something closer to a showhouse, more Paul’s family than hers. It’s an old house, Victorian in style, built long enough ago that it’s nearly a piece of history but it’s a Hethridge home, and that apparently means something.

And for all that it’s older, it’s the biggest house Ellie’s stepped in in her life. And definitely the most expensive too, what with the property and the shorefront not more than a minute walk down a sloping hillside.

While Ellie’s been calling Lloyd Harbor home for the last two years, it’s never really felt like home. Too soon after moving into it, she was moving right back out to follow Paul into the city and into Trinity. (Because _he’s good for us, Ellie, he can be a father—_ )

Or something.

And if she has anything to say about Paul, anything other than _he’s not my father,_ she can at least give him this: that she loves the city and without him in her mother’s life, Ellie can’t really imagine what her life would be like. She would never have met Mya, would never have found—

 _Him_.

Well, she might have, but it was in the process of moving, of packing her and her mother’s little life up into boxes out of their little two-bedroom apartment more like a shoebox and into one of the Hethridge’s homes by the coast.

(Yes, _one_ of. Old money is as old money does, _apparently._ )

She doesn’t begrudge her mother’s choice, doesn’t even really _dislike_ Paul, he’s nice and he tries, (maybe a little too much, sometimes) but he means well… he’s just… just _Paul._

And, she thinks, the only real issue she has  is her mother using words like _yours_ and _ours_ and _father_ when Ellie knew, she _knew_ that Paul wasn’t ever going to be _hers._

And maybe a little bit of that was just how quickly her little life changed, leaving New Rochelle and her Grandma for the city and her mother’s work, leaving the city for a guy who wore sweater vests, leaving Lloyd Harbour because Sweater Vest said Ellie could be _his_ —

And she _isn’t._

 (And that picture, that blurred polaroid stuffed in the back of a box in her mother’s closet was _proof._ )

 

But, he makes her mother happy, and that’s what matters, doesn’t it?

 

 

 

 

                The car clicks off and Ellie grabs her backpack and duffel, ignoring Paul’s offer to carry it as he grabs his briefcase. Unlike Ellie, Paul has his life set up in each place he calls home for however long he’s there, his apartment during the school week, home here with her mother and his soon-to-be wife.

Ellie however, packs her life into bags and goes back and forth whenever her mother calls her home and school isn’t too hectic.

She isn’t sure how Paul does it…it’s always so jarring to her, leaving the city now.

As they head inside, Ellie can’t help but let her mind wander back to the man that’s been lingering in her thoughts like a shadow in her peripherals for the past month (more than a month, really, if she counts all the time she spent debating, deciding, deliberating finding him.)

She wonders what Nico’s doing as she follows Paul inside. Wonders what he was thinking that morning, what he said when he thought she was asleep. Wonders if he’s even thinking about her.

 If he’s ever thought about her the way she thought about him in the shower. (Because she might not have had sex yet, but she knows what a hard on feels like, has danced and touched enough boys to know. And she’s sure— _nearly_ sure that he was hard _._ )

Ellie heads upstairs, dropping her bags and face-planting onto her bed, the quilt cool beneath her warm cheeks, wiggling enough that she can turn her head into the smell still lingering in her hoodie.

 _I’m so fucked up,_ she thinks, as she thinks about Nico’s body beneath hers, about his chest, his arms, the heat of his hands on her skin.

 _So fucked up,_ she grumbles into the quilt as she feels that tell-tale ache grow inside of, the one not tempered by her fingers in the shower that morning.

She wonders how fucked up it would be to ask him if he jerked off. Can’t help _picturing_ him jerking off. A hand on his cock, stroking up—

“You’ve been distracted lately,” Paul’s voice intrudes into her thoughts and space and Ellie jerks up, mind and body pulling away from her own thoughts as embarrassment withers whatever arousal was building inside of her.

“Jesus,” she curses, blowing out a breath. “Can you knock?”

She doesn’t mean to sound so bratty, but Paul just snorts, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his button down a little wrinkled from the drive north. No sweater vest today, she notices.

She hears the floor creak, the house too old to ever be silent, not even when no one is moving. The bed dips and Ellie shuffles closer to her pillows, eyeing Paul as he sits, leaning on one hand and facing on her. “I think you’re working too mu—”

“I’m not,” Ellie interrupts with a frown, pulling a pillow into her lap and hugging it, ignoring the lingering little warmth inside of her, the one still stuck on _imagining_. “Can we not do this.”

Paul frowns, sighing. “I’m only looking out for you, Ellie, your mother—”

“Doesn’t care about me working.”

“ _Cares_ about your schooling,” Paul overrides, frowning at her. He’s wearing his glasses today, thick, dark-rimmed, it makes him look more like the man she knows as her teacher than the man that was supposed to be, _a father, Ellie, he could be a really great dad—_

“I care about your schooling.”

Ellie nearly laughs at it now, nearly wants to jump in the shower and scrape off the realisation, that Ellie found her actual father—

That she found him and she wants to—

 _Holy shit,_ she thinks, _I’m so fucked up._

“It’s not funny, Ellie,” he chides. “There are plenty of studies showing how working too much directly impacts how well a student can—”

“Lots of kids work and go to school, you know,” Ellie rolls her eyes. “Like ninety percent of university kids, really.”

“Except you’re in Trinity and you’re not just some university kid” Paul states, like Ellie should just go, _oh, you’re so right, how silly of me. Let me quit real life and live in your fantasy world where money doesn’t matter._

“I _like_ working. I like having my own money, my grades are fi—”

“Well your last paper says a little bit differently,” he says, pulling one knee up on the bed, turning to face her directly. “Your mother and I think you should quit.”

“No,” Ellie shakes her head, irritation bubbling up. “So I got eighty instead of ninety on one paper, so what?”

“You should be getting ninety and up, you know that.”

“What does it honestly matter to you, honestly, you’re not my dad, Paul.”

“I will be in a month,” he says, easily, factually, like Ellie should know better.

“No,” she denies, voice steady, even, meeting his eyes. “You’ll be my mother’s _husband_.”

“And you’ll be taking my name, just like your mother, which makes you mine, Ellie, just like your mother. We’re a family.”

He pushes up from the bed, tucking his hands into his pockets, giving her a smile that aims for…for _fatherly_ or something…but ends up grating.

“If you’re going to be a Hethridge than you’re going to do better than eighty, especially if you’re going to the university next year.”

“I’m not a Hethridge!” Ellie’s voice bounces louder, anger rocketing. _Like fuck I’m taking your name,_ she thinks, _not happening._

Ellie doesn’t even know when this was a _thing,_ last she heard her mother wasn’t going to bother changing Ellie’s last name at all, wanting to keep her name as it’s always been; her family’s name.

“You will be,” Paul states, looking more like her teacher than the father-figure he wants to be. “I’m not trying to fight with you, I know this is new to you, but you’re going to be part of our family very soon and there are certain expectations…”

He steps closer, reaching out to touch Ellie’s head, fingers brushing her hair a little before she ducks away, scowling.

“You’ve got a month, but after your mother and I get back from the honeymoon, we expect you to make school your priority. I’m not trying to be an… an overbearing stepfather, Ellie, I’m just trying to help you. Education is important. Especially in this family.”

He walks out before Ellie can say anything else, staring at his back as he walks away. Listening to his footsteps climb the next set of stairs, heading towards the master bedroom.

Jolting up from her bed and towards her closet, she tugs off her clothes and into old shorts and a long sleeve shirt, shoving her feet into old runners and—

 _Like fuck I’m ever going to be yours,_ she seethes at the man currently kissing her mother good morning one floor up.

 

 

 

On the dirt trail, over the uneven terrain, Ellie _doesn’t_ think about how much she wants to be someone else’s.

 

How much she thinks she already _is._

 

 

 

 

 

                By the time dinner rolls around, Ellie has skyped Mya and complained about Paul, re-lived that morning with Nico in her mind more times than she cares to admit, and endured her friend’s teasing and urging to ask for a night at Elysium because, _it’s my birthday El, and as my best, more amazing friend ever, I would die happy—_

She’s had lunch with her mother and Paul, a quiet, irritatingly formal meal in the dining room while her mother fawned and fixated over all the minute wedding details Ellie couldn’t care less about it.

She feels bad for not caring. Because it matters, _it does_ , that her mother is happy…but ever since she found _him_ , Ellie can’t help but feel like she’s… like there’s an itch inside of her and it’s been there for years and now she can reach it, now she can touch it and he feels—

He feels _right._

Except, there are no more texts from him, though Ellie’s thumbed open his message screen more than once, thinking to type something, thinking to say: _if I asked you to pick me up, would you?_

_Were you hard this morning?_

_I think I’m really messed up and I have no idea if you—_

She doesn’t, though. Deleting everything she types, every question she wants to ask, every thought that has to do with him.

By the time her stomach starts grumbling again, Mya has regaled her with her own parent’s opinions and ideas on Mya’s life and Ellie thinks maybe she’s right, that this is just more Paul trying, _trying too hard,_ but _trying_.            

 “Don’t take it too personally, El,” Mya says a little absently, dragging pink polish over her toenails, the colour popping against her skin tone. “He’s definitely just trying to be all like, _fatherly_ , what with the wedding and stuff.”

“Yeah, well, he should focus on my mom then, not me. I’m not the one he’s marrying.”

“But you’re a packaged deal,” she smiles. “Mommy and daughter come hand in hand.”

Ellie sighs, dropping her chin on her knee, eyeing her phone again. “I don’t need a father.”

Mya laughs, capping the nail polish, shooting Ellie a wide grin.

“Just a _daddy,_ right?”

“Oh, shut up!” Ellie laughs, turning her quickly pinking cheeks into her knee, the name sticking in her mind. _Daddy._

Literally. _Daddy._

“Nico’s not…it’s not like that.”

Mya lifts a brow, looking like the cat that caught the canary. “You know, I’d totally believe you, but I didn’t even mention a name, you’re the one who brought him up.”

Ellie opens her mouth, snapping it shut again, burrowing her face in her knees.

“I really don’t like you,” she groans out. “Why do I put up with you?”

“Because I’m honest and you love me and I’m _right,_ ” Mya states ticking them off on her pink, polished fingernails. “So do me a favour and ask daddy to take us out for my birthday.”

“Oh my _God,_ ” Ellie laughs, cheeks burning. “I’m not—”

But there’s a knock on her door and her mother’s bursting in, fabric scraps in hand, the wedding planner thick and bleeding more fabric as she drops it on Ellie’s bed.

 _Fuck,_ Ellie curses, snapping her computer shut as Mya mouths _Daddy_ and collapses into laughter.

“Honey, what do you think, silver or navy?”

 

 

 

 

 

                Ellie sprawls out on her bed, her sheets soft and warm, the fresh green, not-city air sneaking in through her cracked open window. She watches the breeze shift the curtains, curled up under the blankets, feeling the chill against her face and letting her mind and body crawl into wakefulness.

Her body is still warm, the dream lingering in her mind, behind every blink; it isn’t as hard as it should be to admit that she knows who she was dreaming of.

It _should_ be harder, she thinks. Harder to admit and accept the fact that you want your father to—

To—

Ellie eyes her phone, crossing her legs beneath her blankets and debating between texting him and sticking her fingers into the ache between her legs and getting off.

She slips her fingers over her stomach, over the little bit of re-growth from her last wax with Mya, the one spoiled thing she indulges in, a spa day, every few weeks, where they strip down, get pampered and then get… _stripped_.

Can’t help but wonder if he’d like it; if he cares; if he’d eat—

The ache grows quickly, her eyes falling closed as her fingers slip between the already wet slick of her sex; the heat of her clit, slippery and smooth, making her hips inch up as she circles it, rubbing over it, fingers pushing against the little bundle of nerves.

Her mind rolls away as quickly as her thighs get slippery, as her fingers find a rhythm, as her hips shift; imaging rolling up and meeting a heavy weight, a hot and hard cock she imagines to be thick and long like the man it’s attached too. Curling her legs around his waist, mouth to mouth, begging for—

_More, Daddy, please._

                Ellie stares at the ceiling, body still thrumming from her orgasm, fingers still slippery and resting on the heat of her sex.

“I’m so _fucked_ ,” she mumbles to the ceiling.

 

 

 

 

 

                If there’s a time to question your sanity and maybe even your morality, Ellie thinks it’s sometime between washing the slick or her orgasm off her fingers and thighs and sitting down for breakfast with her mother and soon-to-be-father while they plan their wedding and _definitely_ after zoning out while they talk about colours and guests and seats and Ellie’s mind is stuck spilling fantasies of her actual, real-life _dad—_

Whose hands are—

And whose body is—

And—

“Ellie—”

Ellie jerks, sitting straighter, the sound of Nico’s _come on, sweetheart, just like—_ snapping like an elastic back into reality.

“You alright, peanut, you’re a little flushed?”

Paul frowns, her mother touches her forehead and Ellie ducks away, slipping out of her seat, grabbing her breakfast dishes and excusing herself with an _I’m_ _fine, just going to go for a run._

               

                So, if there is a time to question her sanity, morality, humanity, whatever else that makes Ellie, _Ellie_ , she’s definitely at that point.

In the mirror, wiping the steam away with a squeak, Ellie stares at her blurred reflection and wonders what the fuck she’s doing.

Imagines the _reality_ of what she’s doing.

What she _wants._

For a moment, she lets herself think about telling someone, about saying: _He’s my father and I—_

_I—_

She laughs, but it’s twisted into something a bit sickened. Clenching her eyes and ignoring the twist of her stomach.

_I’m so fucked up._

 

 

 

 

                By the time Monday rolls around, Ellie is almost relieved that when her mother slips into the conversation that she’s spending the week in New York to finalise some wedding things and they’d be doing some things together… because sometime during this weekend Ellie’s acceptance of what she wants has faded into a stomach-churning _fear._

Fear that she’s wrong, fear that he doesn’t want her, fear that _he does—_

Fear that she’s willing, wanting, _aching_ for more, for whatever he’ll give her.

Just cold, uncertain fear.

Part of her wants to hide in the shadow of her mother’s happiness and pretend to just be a daughter to a single mother who’s getting married to a _nice man_ who _isn’t_ the man that made her.

Part of her wants to cross the city and demand an answer from the only man that can give her one. The man that made her. The man that—

That makes her question everything she is.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

                There’s no questioning, no pushing for another night, Nico responds with a simple, _okay, whatever you need,_ when Ellie texts him that her mother is down and she can’t see him Monday night.

 

Or Tuesday. Or Wednesday.

 

 

Or at all that week.

 

 

 

 

                She picks up a shift at the Roastery on Thursday night, spends five hours grinding coffee, smiling that fake, too stretched, too nice smile for every customer and tries to ignore the silent, still of her phone in her back pocket.

She was the one who bailed all week, there’s no reason for her to be disappointed he hasn’t texted since her last weak excuse about work or her mother or Paul or a wedding that seems ever more like some approaching guillotine aimed for her neck.

But she can’t help but hope, stupidly, mindlessly, every time the bell above the doors chimes that a familiar, tall, dark-haired man will come in with a crooked smile and a _hello, sweetheart._

Until a familiar face _does_ arrive, in the form a man at a corner table, his coffee empty, a laptop in front of him, wearing dark colours and offering her a smile when she comes to refill his mug.

“Well, this is a surprise,” he says, his eyes crinkling at her. “Hello again.”

Ellie blinks, rolling back through the days until the man’s face clicks in her mind.

The field trip, the MET, the man wandering the gallery with her.

“Oh!” she inhales, nearly spilling the coffee. “It's you!”

The man holds out his hand, large and pale, the tattoos she caught glimpses of in the gallery, more on display now, in the low hanging light of the café’s sconces, the sleeves of his shirt rolled over his forearms, higher than before.

“Max,” he smiles, waiting.

Ellie hesitates, just for a second, because it’s _weird,_ isn’t it?

A little?

“Ellie,” she offers, her hand sliding into his, warm and calloused as it closes around hers.

“Nice to meet you, Ellie,” he says, his hand leaving hers, relaxing back in his seat while Ellie hesitates at his tableside. “Truthfully, I’m quite happy, this is the first time I’ve seen a familiar face since I got here.”

Ellie eases at that, “Oh? Are you alo—I mean…”

He laughs, deep, eyes crinkling in a way that eases more of her nerves. “Alone? Yes, a bit. It’s alright.”

Ellie smiles, leaning her hip against his table. “Well, how’s the house hunt going, then?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

                Ellie laughs as the music plays a quiet beat out of someone’s desktop speakers, the rap beat thumping lightly beneath the laughter and chatter.

The boy’s lacrosse team returned from the last game victorious and the residence heads were looking the other way as the students celebrated.

In and out of dorm rooms, spilling into the common room, dorms open, music mixing, drinks mixing as the night wore on.

It’s sometime after her third drink and sometime before her sixth that Ellie’s leaving the makeshift dancefloor (that’s really just the common room with the couches pushed against the walls) and Mya’s side as she grinds up on one of the lacrosse players, his mouth leaving wet marks along her neck that the itching at the back of her mind and along her spine, that low humming _want_ that’s been there all week and building and building inside of her—

Bursts.

She’s hot and the world is too hazy and she knows, in some small part of her brain that’s not alcohol-tinted, that she’s doing something _stupid_.

But, she slips out from the group of her peers who want to pull her into their beer pong and drinking games and heads down the hallway, red solo cup in hand. Ellie makes her way to her dorm, mind blurry focused on one thing.

One man.

Already reaching into her jeans, pulling out her phone and thumbing at the lock screen and she climbs out her window and onto the green of Trinity’s field.

She was hoping drinks would pull her mind away from all the things inside of her, (her dreams that leave her wet and aching, the fantasies that won’t stop spilling and leaving her squirming, the desire to see him, even if it’s just to _see him—)_

But so far, it’s all just been lingering in her body, growing hotter, louder, more unavoidable the more she drank, waiting for that stomach-churning little bit of fear inside of her to get drowned out by alcohol and to surge back in like an ocean current.

She swallows another mouthful, a fruity drink that probably has more alcohol than it should have, watching her phone, the little text box waiting for her to type, his name in block letters.

It’s late she realises, the clock ticking over to one-thirty am, but she feels itchy and loose all at once, wound too tight and easing at the edges like an ice cube melting across a tabletop on a hot day.

She _wants_ to see him, more than she _should._

She sits, cross-legged on the grass, ignoring the shiver of the cold fall air on her skin. Her thumb hesitates over the call button only for another second before she presses it, bringing the phone to her ear, mind too loose to care about anything.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Nico says, all low and rolling in a way that makes her toes curl in her sneakers.

Ellie bites her lip, her hand tightening on her phone, her breath leaving her in a rush at the sound of his voice. She can hear music behind him, can hear a heavy bass beat and wonders if he’s at Elysium.

“Hi,” she says, her hand tight on her phone, eyes closing.

The music fades, a sound of a door shutting, the thumping beat of dance music fading more.

“Hi,” he says quietly, lightly, like he’s waiting for her to say more.

“I liked…I liked sleeping with you—” Ellie mumbles, laying back onto the grass, the ground cold beneath her. “Last time.”

There’s a pause, just breathing, that distant _thump-bump_ of heavy music.

“Are you drunk, Ellie?”

“A little,” she mumbles staring up at the not quite black above her, the orange glow of the city tinting the sky. “Wanna see you.”

There’s a pause, a door shutting and the music cuts off entirely, turns into a honk of a car and street sounds.

“Where are you?”

 “Outside.”

“You’re outside,” he repeats, quickly, questioning. “Why are you outside. I thought you were in dorms?”

“Am. Just on the field. I was hot.”

“Ellie, sweetheart, I want you to go back inside, can you do that?”

“Mmhm, you coming now?” Ellie mutters and listens to something airy and low in her ear, something like a little laugh.

“As soon as I can get there, promise.”

 

 

 

                She can feel the goosebumps on her skin, the slow chill in the October air, but the grass is soft and she’s watching the sky until she hears his quiet footsteps on the grass and catches sight of him as he stands over her.

“Thought you were supposed to be inside, hm?” there’s a half smile on his mouth, like he’s trying to not tease her. “Doing alright there, sweetheart?”

“Peachy-keen, Daddy-o.”

He laughs, a quick thing, leaning down and somehow, easily, in a way that makes Ellie squeak out a laugh, scoops her up and over his shoulder.

“Peachy-keen, huh,” he drawls, and Ellie feels his hand settle on the back of her thigh, thumb curved around her leg, a seeping hotness that makes her want to squirm into it.

“Uh-huh,” she says, watching the grass, the back of his pant covered legs as he walks towards the car. At least she hopes he’s going that way.

“Did you have fun?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you drink too much?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Will anyone send a search party if I keep you?”

Ellie bites her lip at that, holding back her smile even though he can’t see it. “Nuh-huh.”

“Good.”

Ellie sees the curb, watching the shine of his leather shoes reflecting the orange glow of the streetlights as he steps onto the pavement. The click of the car door and then the leather smell, the lingering smell of him in the interior.

“What, no convertible?” she teases as he shrugs, manoeuvring her in his arms until she feels the seat beneath her.

The click of the buckle comes, his hand by her hip, hot and noticeable in the space where her shirt has ridden up.

“Getting a little out of season for that,” he says quietly, his eyes downcast, his knuckles hot on her skin.

Ellie feels like all her nerves are on alert, right on that one spot, the heat of his hand through her jeans, the heat of his skin just barely touching hers over the hem of her jeans.

He’s quiet for a moment and then pulls away, the door shutting, Ellie watching him through the windshield, his hand dragging through his hair.

When he settles in beside her it’s with a whiff of smoke clinging to that smell that always lingers on him, a faint thing, but there. One she hadn’t noticed in the green-smelling air of the field.

“Do you smoke?” Ellie blurts, curious.

He cuts a glance at her, the car purring to life. “No. I was with people who do, though.”

Ellie nods and watches his hand on the wheel, the silver of his watch glinting in the orange light, his other hand settling between them, his elbow on the centre console.

“So, how drunk are you,” he looks over at her, as Ellie watches him drive, the traffic mostly taxis, the car quieter as a light flicks from yellow to red.

Ellie laughs, leaning against the car door, turning to face him. “M’not that drunk.”

Nico lifts a brow, a rush of doubtful air out of his chest. “Uh-huh.”

“I only had a little.”

“Well, you’re pretty little, so a little goes a long way.”

“M’not that little,” Ellie denies, tilting her head onto the seatback.

Nico looks over at her, his eyes shadowed, glancing between her and the road, the silence growing before he huffs.

“You really are, El.”

He drives, Ellie’s head lolls, watching him in the rushes of orange light, the slow flicker of a traffic light, yellow, red, green.

“Were you at Elysium?”

Nico’s head turns to look at her, but it’s too dark to make his expression out before he turns back to the road, watches him nod in profile.

“Can we go dancing sometime?”

“What? You and me?”

Ellie nods.

“I’ll take you wherever you want to go, Ellie.”

“Do you want to dance with me?”

There’s a low laugh, something a little disbelieving. “You’re so drunk.”

“M’not!” Ellie whines, “Just tipsy.”

“Tipsy,” he mutters, watching the road, his fingers tapping on the wheel. “What am I supposed to do with you, huh?”

Ellie falls silent, watching his hand tap, a few more times before he drags it through his hair, sighing.

When they’re finally pulling into the underground garage, the world goes dark, stripes or orange before the pale fluorescent lights illuminate Nico’s face.

But she still can’t read him. He unbuckles, slips out, keys jangling before stuffing them into his pocket. He’s wearing slacks, a black belt, a button-down that’s splayed open a few more buttons than she’s seen before. His chest looks—

 _Nice_ , she thinks.

Nico rounds the car, tugging a hand through his hair again, until the car door opens and he’s making quick work of her seatbelt, hauling her up and over his shoulder again.

Ellie laughs, it trips along the cool, cement-pillared underground and echoes back in her ears.

Nico’s shoulder is hard and thick, his hand hot and wide, his gait steady as the car beeps locked, and he heads towards the elevators.

“I can walk,” she laughs.

“Uh-huh,” he says, and she can practically hear the crooked smile in his voice.

Ellie grips her hands into his belt, trying to lever herself a bit more upright, catching sight of him in the mirrored wall of the elevator, his hand on her thighs, his hair a bit rumpled from his hand.

The world shifts, the elevator dings; Nico carries her quietly and Ellie gets distracted by his ass and the slight caress of his thumb on her thigh.

Into the loft, the door shutting, the click of a lock. She expects him to put her down, but instead, his hand slides along her leg, peeling off her sneaker, smacking onto the floor and making her laugh.

 Ellie bends her other knee, lifting her foot towards him to make it easier to reach, laughing while she does it, feeling his laugh rolling through his chest and into her stomach.

For a second she forgets why she didn’t want to see him; the ease between them softens, dulls, blurs the reality of who they are just like the blur of alcohol makes the butterflies, wants, wishes in her stomach into something a little bit more okay than they should be.

As he starts to walk again, Ellie doesn’t miss that he passes by the hallway where they usually go, where they slept last time and she doesn’t know why it didn’t occur to her before… That sleeping with him, that saying it out loud, _I liked sleeping with you,_ might lead her towards another room. Ellie sucks in a little breath, her heart rate picking up as he climbs the stairs, his socked feet quiet on the iron staircase.

She thinks her mind blacks out briefly, images sliding through her mind like a carousel, skipping tracks on an album, bed, Nico, skin, bed, moans, hands, Nico, shoulders, _daddy, please—_

Lost in her mind she doesn’t pay attention to the world until she’s being moved, Nico’s shoulder tensing, his body leaning forward, his hands sliding along her sides and onto her hips and she’s being tossed on the bed, landing in the middle with a bounce and a laugh breaking out of her despite the images clinging onto the dark of her eyelids.

The bed is cool to the touch, softer than she remembers from her hungover, shocked state of mind the last time she was here.

Nico’s standing at the edge of the bed, watching her as she flops back into the softness, stretching into it and letting out a little breathless and eager:

“We’re sleeping here?”

The room’s lit only by the light outside the windows, the shifting, sparkling city lights below them and across Central Park, the West Side of the city casting lights that give Ellie just enough light to see by, to see the edges of his smile as he looks down at her.

“I’m not sleeping on that couch again, sweetheart, I am way too fucking tall for that.”

Ellie grins because he’s smiling and she’s blindingly _happy_ for a moment, to be there and in his bed and not caring at all about _anything._

She’s mindless, alcohol warm and her hands go to her jeans without a thought aside from bed and Nico and sleeping together. Her hands shove at the denim, the button snapping, the zipper loud in the quiet, the city outside more of a dream made of shifting, blinking lights.

It’s just him and her and Ellie doesn’t _care_ about anything except the idea, the image, the _reality_ of bed and him and her.

His hand touches her foot and Ellie pauses, glancing up at him in the half-light; her jeans open, shoved down an inch, the light blue of her underwear showing beneath the open ‘v’ of the zipper.

She catches his glance down, over the length of her body, her belly shifting as she breathes, the curve of her hipbone, the slope from bellybutton towards the band of her underwear.

His face is so hard to read, she thinks, _he’s_ so hard to read; no idea what he’s thinking about. Ever.

And then his hand closes around her ankle and Nico tugs her towards the edge of the bed. Her shirt rucking up higher, her hair splaying out behind her; the gentle sound of her body sliding over the duvet the only noise in the room.

Other than the bass-beat of her pulse, anyway.

When he leans forward and the heat of his fingers brush hers, Ellie sucks in a breath. The touch more intimate than she expects it to be; his fingers long next to hers, curling into the thicker hem of her jeans and working them down her hips.

Her heart picks up, thumping quicker inside of her chest as his knuckles brush her hipbones, over the top of her thighs, hands so close the blue cotton of her underwear. So close to that squirming little ache inside of her, throbbing in time with her heartbeat.

And still, even as she watches his face, watches the shadows and angles and heavy weight of his eyelashes as he looks over her body, Ellie has no idea what he’s thinking.

He straightens up as he works them lower, her hips shifting as she lifts her legs up, letting him tug and pull as he peels her jeans off. Her toes touch his shoulder and there’s something so— so intimate about it, about how her foot rests on his shoulder, his face turning into it, his lips brushing over her anklebone while he tugs on the jeans still caught on her other foot.

And then they’re off and Ellie’s splayed out on his bed, her foot flat against the heat of his shoulder, the tense of his muscles beneath it. Her other leg falling wide on the other side of his body.

Her jeans land with a plat, discarded on the floor. Nico’s hand on her leg, leaning forward, his mouth on her ankle, her calf, her knee while her leg curls farther over his shoulder. He braces an arm beside her hip, his mouth just on the inside of her knee, her calf on his shoulder, leg tucked towards her body as he hesitates over her.

Ellie can’t tear her eyes away from his face. Wishing she could see more, wishing she could read him, could lay out his thoughts like the goosebumps spreading on her skin and read him like brail.

His eyes close, his shoulders shifting as he pulls in a long, steadying breath.

And then he lets her go, pushing back and off the bed, jostling her as he goes. “I’ll get you something to sleep in.”

“Really?” she whines, her head dropping back onto the bed, staring at lights crawling across the ceiling. The streaking shadow stretching out from the modern light fixture hanging above the bed. “You’re so…so _confusing_.”

 “I’m confusing?” Nico questions. Ellie blows out a breath, disappointment cold inside of her; feeling his eyes on her, waiting for her to answer.

“I never know what you’re thinking,” she mutters, and some small part of her brain is screaming _, shut up you idiot, shut up_ , but the alcohol in her belly is as hot as the slick seat of her underwear and she wants to roll over and roll her hips into her hand, wants to work her fingers inside of herself…wonders if he’d stay and watch. Wonders if he’d linger over her back and let her work her hips into his lap while she works her fingers inside herself.

_Daddy, please—_

“Says the girl who ghosted me all week.”

“I didn’t ghost you!” she jolts up, sitting on his bed and staring up at him.

“Blew me off all week, sweetheart, that’s close enough,” Nico says with a shrug. And still, still, Ellie can’t read him, can’t understand him, can’t decipher what he wants or gets out of this. What he wants from her—

And there’s a part of her that knows she should shut up, but it comes out spilling anyway.

“You’re my _dad_ ,” she blurts, watches him stiffen, watches his face for a reaction, but all he does is go still; a statue in the image of a modern man. “You’re my _dad_ and I feel like I’m going _crazy_ —”

Shifting up onto her knees, Ellie stares him down, spurned on by his eyes so heavy on her, by the still lingering feel of his hands, his mouth on her skin, whatever it is that strings them together; more than blood.

“I can’t— I don’t know— I don’t know what to _do_ ,” she stumbles over her words, unsure how far to push, wants to push more, but she’s sitting in her underwear on his bed and he’s looking so calm and unbothered by all of it. Like it’s all so easy. Like it’s _nothing._ It makes her feel like it _is nothing_ and Ellie’s adding importance and meaning to things she really, really shouldn’t be.

 “I feel like I’m going fucking crazy and you always look so…so _unaffected_ ,” she sags, feeling young and stupid and cold on the soft of his duvet and in the absence of his hands and her pants.

 “Unaffected,” he repeats, slowly, like he’s trying to understand the word.

Ellie nods, biting back more truths that should stay in her mind and out of her mouth. Like, _I want you to fuck me, want to call you, daddy, Daddy. I want—_

_You to know how fucked up I am._

She bites her cheek, nerves ticking up, alcohol making her feel _tilted,_ nerves making her fingers shake as she tucks her hair behind one ear, flicking her eyes up to his, trying to gauge him. His face still half-dark, half-unreadable, half-lit by the city lights. Watching her, waiting. The only emotion, a slight furrow of his eyebrows.

“By you?”

Ellie nods again, swallowing, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, watching the shift of his eyes, barely visible as he regards her.

“You’re so hard to read…sometimes I think…I think, I think _maybe_ you _…_ want…” she trails off, feels stupid for not being able to say it, for not being able to just ask him point blank, if he wants her the way she wants him. If she’s literally going crazy and this is all some twisted imagining while she’s still tucked in her bed with slick fingers and shameful fantasies.

He stands still for long enough that Ellie feels doubt crawling back into her mind, feels like she’s on a roller coaster of indecisions, _he does_ versus _he doesn’t._ Every plummet a doubt, every rise a touch, a glance, a moment between them she can’t explain.

“You really think that, don’t you?”

Ellie shrugs, looking down at the duvet, not sure what to say.

Nico sighs, a long drawn out breath and then reaches sideways for the bedside lamp that had been Ellie’s make-shift defence the first time she was here.

Light spills, a low, soft white; Nico standing straighter again, meeting her eyes. “Does this look unaffected to you?”

Confused, Ellie looks down, over the slight wrinkle of his shirt, the open collar, the line of buttons, the dark black belt and—

“Oh,” she exhales, a little sound in the quiet, because there’s a bulge, a thick heavy line in the front of his pants that curves along his thigh and this time, this time there’s no doubt about what it is. This time it’s not a half-there, half awake brush, along her thigh, but a stomach tightening, pulse spiking, squirming feeling inside of her that makes her lips part, her fingers knot into the duvet beneath her—

Flushing, looking up at him through her lashes, pulling in breath from parted, bitten red lips.

“I’m not _unaffected_. You’ve been drinking and I’m trying really fucking hard to be good right now, Ellie.”

 _Oh_ , she thinks, mind leaking into a stomach tensing, body tingling _thing_ that sinks between her hips and clenches inside of her. A bolt of wants and needs and _pleases_ jolt through her as she looks up at him, sees the dark of his eyes, the slightly rumpled look of his hair, the weight of his gaze on her. She can’t help but look back down again, wants to curl her fingers into his belt and tug him closer; wants to touch him because it looks—

Big.

She laughs suddenly, brightly, it bursts out of her, uncatchable as she flops back on the bed.

 “How hard?” Ellie blurts, laughing up at the ceiling.

“No, you’re not drunk at all,” he drawls.

Ellie laughs into the slightly brighter room, her smile near painful, curling her fingers into the duvet, feeling seconds away from bursting with _relief_. With excitement. With eagerness.

She hears him huff, feels the fade of his presence and tilts her head up, catching sight of him heading into his closet and returning with a plain shirt in his hand.

Ellie tries, she does, to not look at the weight of his cock in his pants and grins.

She wants to _lick_ it.

“You know, you could give a guy a complex, laughing at his dick like that.”

“You have extra large condoms in your bathroom,” Ellie grins up at him as he tugs her up to sitting with a hand on her wrist. “I saw them. In your ridiculous bathroom. In your ridiculous house… Even your dick is ridiculous. Ri- _dick_ -u-lous.”

She giggles, letting Nico manhandle her, tugging her wrist; pulling her to her feet, an ungainly slip off the bed onto legs that felt more stable hours ago. Her legs coltish, stumbling as she stands and he sits pulling her to stand between his legs.

His eyes narrow, watching her. “You are so drunk, you little liar.”

Ellie glances down at the bulge in his pants, her humour fading between the heat of his thighs and his body so close to hers.

Nico laughs, a low rough thing as her giggles subside as she looks at him. “My eyes are up here, Ellie.”

She flushes, leaning into him, feeling hot and embarrassed and wanting; winding her arms around his neck, stepping closer into him, wanting to feel his body against hers, wanting to climb into his lap, wanting to ask him to touch her more.

At all.

Anywhere.

She might be tipsier then she thought. But she thinks some of that might be nerves, because she swears her body is so hot that he has to be able to feel it; mind full up on images of climbing into his lap, of her hands drawing out the heavy weight of his cock, of feeling it in her hand, all iron and silk and watching his eyes go darker as he gets harder and harder—

The bed is high enough that even with Ellie standing and him sitting, he’s still taller than her. She has to lean up and into him, pressing her body into his to circle her arms over his shoulders.

Nico does the same, arms circling her waist, the press of his cock, a hot, heavy thing just over her hip, on the slope of skin just below her bellybutton, just above where she wants it to press.

Wants to climb into his lap and roll her hips over it, dragging it over the slippery, cotton-covered ache of her sex.

Nico’s arms unwind and Ellie makes a noise in her throat, pressing her face into his neck, holding on tighter; but when he slips his hands over the outside of her thighs and up the back of them, burning hot, slightly rough, sending spikes of arousal through her stomach that makes her body squirm into his, she realises he wasn’t pushing her away.

His name lingers on her tongue, that _other_ name sticks in her throat, the one that’s been lingering in her mind since she heard it, since she dreamt it, since she got _off_ to it.

_Daddy._

She wants to let it slip out, to whine it, to whimper it, to catch it on the edge of her teeth and press it into his skin.

Can’t help but wonder if he’d even be into that, if _she’s_ really even into that or it’s just good in fantasy and not in the reality of how fucking real that word is.

His hands are iron brands, drawing all her attention, resting wide and warm on the back of her thighs, a handspan above her knees and rising, every inch higher makes her squirm, shiver, her lips parting on his neck, curling her fingers into his shirt.

His hands edge higher, just a little, his thumbs stroking along the underside of her ass, a barely-there touch before his hands curl around her thighs, fingers spread, cupping around the width, so warm and large and she wants to look and see just how big they look on her because it’s doing something to her she didn’t know she was into.

Apparently, there’s a _lot_ of things she’s into that she didn’t realise.

Thoughtless, she edges closer, her foot leaving the floor, no more than an inch before his hand is on it, pushing it back down.

“El,” he warns, his hand firm, resting on her thigh, fingertips long as he turns his palm, brushing up along the outside until he reaches the edge of her t-shirt, which just barely covers the side of her underwear. “You’re drunk.”

She pouts, the _please_ caught in her throat. Pressing harder into him, his cock twitching against her.

 “Baby,” he groans it into her shoulder, his mouth turning, pressing against her collarbone, towards her neck, voice rumbling into her jugular. “What am I going to do with you?”

Ellie shakes her head because _keep me_ sounds like too much, _touch_ _me_ sounds like begging and _fuck me_ sounds like a quick way to get her heart broken when he refuses.

Because he’s trying to be _good._

Whatever that means.

She presses her hands flat to his back, uncurling her fingers, feeling the heat of his skin beneath the soft of his button up, the hard of his muscles, a slight shift as he presses his lips to her neck, hot and warm.

Up the tensing weight of his back, over his shoulder blades, onto the broad of his shoulders, hard beneath her palms; her tongue darting out to wet her lips, breathing a little unsteady, her body a little unsteady…feeling like her thighs are nearly slick with how wet and wanting she feels.

She leans back, just enough to catch his eyes; on her tiptoes, their lips no more than an inch apart. Setting her fingers over the first button on his shirt, slipping it free, their eyes locked, his dark enough she feels like she could sink into him.

They share air, share warmth, his body hard against hers, his hands tight, tighter, nearly too hard on her thighs like he has to grip on to stay still.

His chest shifts beneath her hands, bumping into her knuckles as she undoes another button and then another. Down his chest, over his stomach, looking down between their bodies, the bare inches between them, the small of her body tucked into the v of his legs, the hard angles and broad plains that make her bite her lip as more of him comes into view.

He’s all angles and hard plains, skin a shade darker than the pale of her hand hesitating over his skin.

She scrapes her teeth over her lip at the first touch of her palms on his chest, slipping over the hard-built angles of his muscles; soft skin all warm and deceptive to the bulk of him as she pushes her hands towards his shoulders, his shirt spreading, gathering at her wrists as she uncovers more of him.

Over his shoulders, her hands flat on his skin, soaking up the feeling of him; leaning into him, pushing her hands down his back, pushing until she can’t anymore, his shirt still tucked into his pants.

Nico stands, the weight of his cock pressing into her stomach as he roughly tugs off his shirt the rest of the way and sits back down, hands gripping higher on the back of her thighs, just below her ass.

There’s no real room left between them, his cock, a throbbing weight she presses into. Ellie digs her nails in just a little as she imagines how it would feel inside of her, how it would feel to straddle him, sink down, his hands gripping onto her ass and urging some reckless rhythm.

Nico makes a noise in his throat, his hands tightening on her thighs, and for a second he tenses in a way that makes Ellie’s heart skip because it feels like he’s about to lift her—

But he must catch himself, because he curses into her shoulder, his grip easing, his muscles easing.

“I’m really not that drunk,” Ellie whines, frustrated, wanting, itching for him to do _something._

“Maybe,” he grunts, moving his hands to her hips, gripping on to hold her hip still, to stop the unconscious little roll of her lower body, trying to press into him.

She’s about to complain, to whine, to beg, even, she thinks—

But he’s gripping onto her shirt, pulling it up and over her head, Ellie lifting her arms, stretching up as he pulls it off of her.

When his hands find her waist again, she’s torn between watching his face, the heavy dark of his eyelashes, the torn breath as his hands find her hips again, and the way his hands look, gripping onto her hips.

Though, she thinks gripping isn’t the right word, its nearly hesitant, fingertips spreading wide, thumbs stroking over her hip bones, hands curving around her waist to circle it.

“You’re so fucking small,” he curses, rough and low. “Jesus, El, I’m afraid I’m gonna break you.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” she mutters, stuck watching his hand as he spreads it wide over her stomach. “Like at all, actually.”

Nico laughs, some slightly strained thing, leaning forward, his hand stroking slowly up to her ribs, fingertips just brushing the cotton of her bra, pressing his mouth to her collarbone, her neck, her jaw.

She doesn’t even care that it isn’t a matching bra, that it isn’t anything nicer than white cotton. Too focused on his mouth and his hands to care at all.

The hand on her hip grips tighter, fingers inching along the back of her underwear sitting just over the swell of her ass. Nico presses his lips to her cheek, Ellie’s head turning, her mouth brushing the corner of his—

“Ellie,” he warns, his arms tensing, urging her to step back.

Ellie pouts, there’s no other word for it, disappointment and frustration building up as he holds her back from leaning into him, from climbing into his lap, from kissing him…

Nico leans back, holding Ellie still, but when he sees her face, his lips, twitch, pull up into some crooked smile despite how dark his eyes are.

“Look at the _pout_ ,” he teases, his hand coming, fingers long along her jaw and neck, thumb brushing over her bottom lip.

Ellie thinks about biting him out of spite. Sexual frustration, maybe. Maybe he’d even like it and it’d be win/win.

His thumb pushes heavier, dragging along her bottom lip, his eyes heavy, following the path his thumb takes, the pink of her lip, spit-slicked and plump from her teeth.

His smile fades, his thumb pushing heavier, just enough to scrape the tip of his nail against her teeth.

“Shit,” he curses, rough and torn. And his hands fall away, grabbing the shirt behind him and tugging it over her head, manhandling her arms into it.

“Really?” Ellie complains, brushing her hair out of her face, pulling it out from beneath his shirt, smelling his cologne still lingering on the soft white cotton tee. “You’re mean.”

“And you’re drunk,” Nico bites out, before sighing, scrubbing a hand through his hair, darting a glance down at the thick bulge of his cock in his pants. Ellie follows his gaze, she thinks it might be bigger than before, or it might just be because he’s sitting…she’s going to go with bigger.

 _Shit,_ he mumbles again, lost to his hands as he scrubs them over his face. “I think it’s bedtime.”

And his hands grip onto the back of her thighs as he stands, lifting her up with an ease that makes her breath catch, so quick she barely registers the move before he’s turning and dropping her back onto the bed.

Ellie flops onto the pillows, staring up at him but when he doesn’t follow her down she frowns.

“Aren’t you sleeping here too?”

Nico nods, tugging at his belt. Ellie gets distracted watching him, the leather slipping out in a hiss, the buckle clattering, but when he leans over her, bracing one knee and his hands on either side of her, he only presses his mouth to her neck. A scrape of his teeth that travels through her body and makes her gasp, her body twitch, his lips chasing it, hot and damp.

“You better remember all this in the morning,” he says all rough and low after another biting kiss to her jawbone.

When he leans back, shifting off the bed, Ellie watches him scrub his hand through his hair again, brushing it off his forehead. “I’m going to shower—”

Ellie pouts, nose scrunching. “But—”

“Ellie—I need a… a minute, or ten.”

“You could do it here,” she leads, looking hopefully at him.

He levels her with a look, then shakes his head and huffs, “Don’t tempt me.”

Ellie’s mouth opens again, ready to argue, but Nico’s turning, flicking off the bedside light and heading towards the bathroom, Ellie watches him walk away until the door shuts with a soft click.

She sits up, reaching under her shirt to unhook her bra, peeling it off from beneath his shirt and tossing it over the edge of the bed. Wiggling beneath the duvet and rubbing her legs on the smooth sheets. When she hears the shower turn on there’s only a moment of hesitation before her fingers are inching under the sheets and into her underwear.

He’s not the only one who needs a minute, she thinks.

 

Or ten.

 

 

 

                The alcohol ebbs out of her the longer she lays in the dark, her fingers sticky, her thighs slick, her orgasm pooling hot and cooling along the soaked cotton of her underwear.

She’s too boneless to move, her face turned into his pillows, the scent of him around her; too boneless to be embarrassed by the wet spot beneath her bottom, slick on the sheets.

At least for a few minutes.

But as the shower shuts off and Ellie’s watching the city lights shifting across the ceiling, she’s more aware of her body, of the nearly pruned feeling in her fingertips resting on her cunt. Of who, exactly, is going to be slipping into bed beside her any minute.

Ellie makes a face as she slips her underwear off, the wetness brushing against her legs as she tugs it down. Balling it up and using it to wipe over her thighs and between her legs. Dropping it on the floor just as the door to the bathroom opens.

Nico doesn’t say anything, heading towards his closet with a towel on his hips, skin still shiny, lit by moonlight and city light.

Ellie uses the moment to slink into the bathroom and steal his toothpaste, swishing it in her mouth and scrubbing her finger over her teeth.

He hadn’t bothered turning the lights on, enough light from the city still pouring it, making everything shine and sparkle in a quiet, nearly dreamlike way.

She catches movement in the mirror, turning to find Nico watching her, his face unreadable despite how dark his eyes are in the low light.

He’s in low slung black pants; Ellie can’t help but stare at him. The v of his hips, arms crossed, muscles thick and shadowed into something imposing… if he wasn’t who he was to her.

Though it still pricks in her mind, that she doesn’t really know him, that he’s a man, who has built himself for a purpose, she just doesn’t know _what_ yet.

He closes the distance between them, stepping up behind her at the sink as Ellie spits toothpaste, rinsing out her mouth under the heavy weight of his eyes.

Ellie straightens, Nico at her back, her head barely resting on his chest, watching his eyes sink beneath his lashes, gathering her hair over her shoulder, leaning down to press his mouth to her neck, pulling the neckline of his shirt sideways, down her arm, his mouth travelling slowly along her clavicle.

“Need to get you a stool,” he murmurs, mouth quirking in between hot, damp presses of his lips, his hand braced on the counter in front of them.

Ellie breathes out a quiet laugh, too focused on his touch, on his body behind her.

His hair shines, dark and thick, towel dried and mussed, a strand falling loose and over his forehead. She wants to touch it but she hesitates, unsure now, as her drunken boldness fades, what she should do. What she’s allowed to do.

The whole bathroom smells like soap and whatever that smell of him is, cologne or body wash or just him; Ellie feels it pool in her body still unsated and wanting as he keeps touching her.

“Do you need anything?” he whispers into her shoulder, lips still grazing her skin, fingers on her arm.

_Your fingers. Cock. Tongue. Anything, really._

“Water? Tylenol?”

Ellie shakes her head, set to ignore the ache returning and easing back into the heat and mass of his body behind hers, enjoying how he surrounds her.

His other hand strokes up her thigh, and Ellie feels every slow inch of his caress up to her hip, where his fingers slip over bare skin and he pauses.

It takes her a minute to realise why.

He makes a noise in his throat, his palm hot on her hip, nearly bruising as he grips it.

No underwear.

His hand drops off her hip, the shirt falling to mid-thigh as Nico grips the counter instead, caging her in. His eyes meet hers in the mirror, the moment weighted in the dark, too heavy, filling up with all the things between them…all the things they still haven’t said.

Their eyes are nearly the same colour, even in the dark.

“Come on,” he says into her neck with a last little nip of his teeth, his hand slipping into hers. “Let’s go to bed.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested I have a tumblr for location/character inspo pics here:  
> https://sweetandsure.tumblr.com/
> 
> Hope you enjoyed how things are progressing, let me know what you think!


	8. Part One, VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly! Oh my good golly, the response to last chapter was just... I was blown away, I can't thank you guys enough! Really, I never expected this kind of response when I started posting. I really appreciate the comments so, so much, I can't even tell you how thrilled I am!
> 
> That said, this chapter didn't go quite the way I planned it to, (sometimes characters do that aha :)) but it was getting too long and I want to post something for you guys this weekend.  
> Optimistically, barring any catastrophic real life events, I'll have the next chapter up by next weekend. :)
> 
> Let me know what you think and thank you all again for enjoying this, I hope I don't disappoint!

 

* * *

Chapter VIII

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                Ellie wakes to sunlight and an empty bed.

 

 

It takes her blinking seconds, stretching moments, the sheets soft and body warm beneath her, before she remembers—

Jolting up, she takes in the other side of the bed, the indent still in the pillow, the wrinkles left in the wake of a body…

At least she knows she didn’t _dream_ it.

Still, it’s disappointing waking up alone; the cold air of the room pushes against her skin, dragging reality into focus, dragging the empty bed into focus, dragging a little ball of cold doubt into her belly.

Sliding over to the edge of the bed, the floor cold beneath her toes, Ellie debates between the bathroom and searching him out.

An itch to find him, to see that first look on his face, the one that’ll tell her if her memories are real, if he’s regretting anything, if he’s waiting for _her_ to regret anything.

She slips out of bed, the day already bright, light spilling in from the windows and the open bathroom door. She knows just by this that it’s later then she normally sleeps, but she’s waking up in his bed, naked beneath his t-shirt, and she can’t bring herself to care that much about anything else.

Yawning, she makes her way into the bathroom, blinking into the sun-glinting marble and tile and glass; goose-bumps spreading as she takes a moment to take in all the fall colours spreading across the expanse of Central Park.

She glances at the shower, thinks about taking the time to make herself more presentable, but gets distracted by the new toothbrush sitting beside the sink, waiting for her. 

She eyes herself in the mirror, the slump of his t-shirt, hanging off one shoulder; no marks on her skin, despite the memory of his hot mouth, not hours before.

Lifting the neckline, the lingering smell of Nico stuck in the cotton, her own perfume faint, too long spent wrapped in his bed.

She smiles, letting the shirt fall; fabric skimming her thighs, long enough she’s sure she has dresses that are much shorter. The sight of it makes her smile wider, her dimple deep, remembering the sight of him behind her, the width and breadth of his hand on her stomach.

The relief inside of her is a bright as her easy joy; that despite how fucked up it all is, despite that lingering bit of doubt, last night _happened._ It happened and Ellie isn’t alone in all of this.

She thinks that makes it all a little more bearable. Knowing that she isn’t the _only_ one feeling…all of this. Or something.

With a minty mouth, Ellie settles for scrubbing her face; too eager to see him, too anxious to wait.

As she makes her way out of his bedroom, her hand on the railing, she catches sounds below; cutlery, dishes, a drawer opening and closing.

And then she catches sight of him as she descends the stairs; her nerves fluttering as she watches him tilting back the last few mouthfuls of something thick and green in a glass.

He's already dressed, hair dark and jaw shadowed with that carefully cultivated stubble, his tie hanging open and loose, stark against his oxford shirt.

That little bit of doubt worms to life, wiggling inside of her.

Slinking down the last few steps, her mind rolling, searching for what to say… how to get his attention, how to _keep it._

How to break the quiet. How to ask him if it’s all okay—

But Nico looks up, and his smile is all wide and white and eye-crinkling even across the distance between them, and it _does things_ to her stomach it shouldn’t do. Things part of her mind keeps telling her it _shouldn’t_ do, but it _does_ and she’s left sinking her teeth into her cheek, her body warming, her pulse sparking.

Because that mouth was on her last night, wasn’t it?

(On her cheek, across her collarbone, hot on her neck…)

“Good morning,” he says, all rolling and warm and _fond;_ watching Ellie make her way across cold, dark floors. His eyes moving over her body; her bare feet, bare thighs, the slope of her sharp shoulder, bared in the slouch of his shirt.

 “Morning,” she says when she finally reaches him, her cheeks warm from the weight of his gaze; from the spark in her body at the sight of him and memory of him and reality of him.

Boosting herself up onto a stool on the other side of the island counter, Ellie can barely hold in her questions but settles for something less desperate than, w _ill you touch me now?_

“You’re up early…”

She curls her fingers into the cotton of his shirt on her thighs, legs pressed together, toes braced on the stool legs, a momentary hesitation to not just blurt out everything rolling around in her head.

“…And dressed.”

Nico’s eyes shift away from her body, and she doesn’t have to guess what caught his eyes; can feel the hard point of her nipples, the goosebumps on her skin are half made of cold air and half made of nerves.

He’s quiet for a heartbeat, two, as he meets her eyes, the same grey-blue shade as his smile breaks off into a crooked thing and he pushes a plate of fruit and eggs and toast towards her.

“I have to go out for a few hours, two, three at the most.”

Ellie nods, pulling her lip between her teeth; touching a finger to the fork beside her plate, pushing it a little, chewing her thoughts as she chews her lip.

“Oh.”

“I wasn’t expecting you after you ghosted me all week,” he jokes, and she watches his hands on the marble countertop, his nails short and clean, his watch thick and silver and glinting. The flex of his tendons when he taps his finger, once, twice. “I just have to deal with some business—”

There’s a knock, loud in the quiet of his apartment; Ellie jumps a little, looking over towards the front door.

“That’s for you.”

Ellie looks back at Nico, gauging him, trying to understand because how could it be for her?

He smiles, head tilting towards the door, urging her towards it. “Go on.”

Slipping off the stool with a wary frown, Ellie heads over to the door, undoing to lock, the bolt, and cracking it open.

But when there’s no one in the hallway she opens it more and finds a small black bag and a gift basket, cellophane wrapped.

She picks it up, surprised by the size and weight of it as she peers inside; catching sight of bright colours, black bottles… or _something_ , inside.

Nico laughs a little, and he reaches forward to grab the wrapping, helping her put in on the island counter as she boosts herself back up onto a stool.

Using her fork, she pierces the wrap and as she peels it away she laughs, dropping her face into her hands.

Inside the basket, bottles of bubble bath, bath salts and oils and bombs, all bright colours, dark shining bottles with bold white writing.

“I’m still looking for a yellow Walkman.” Nico winks, his smile crooked and far too satisfied.

She laughs picking out one of the bubble bath bottles, looking it over, glancing up at Nico as he rounds the side of the island to lean against the stool next to her.

“Thought it could distract you for a few hours while I’m gone,” he says, his smile softer, eyes warm.

“You’re ridiculous,” Ellie grins, shaking her head.

He huffs a laugh at that, watching her while she turns on the stool to face him. “Apparently everything of mine is ridiculous, so I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She laughs, catching his eyes moving over her; the slip of his t-shirt a little further down her shoulder.

“How are you feeling?”

She debates it, her boldness, all the liquid courage in her body the night before, to press into him, to touch him, to close the distance of hesitations, maybes, ifs—

“I remember everything, if that’s what you’re asking,” she says it quietly, and she doesn’t know if she does this because it feels like an admittance of something that shouldn’t be spoken about in the daylight, in the absence of alcohol and shadows and his bedroom, or because she wants to be able to deny it, to give him a way out, to give her a way out if he asks

_What, I didn’t hear you?_

But he doesn’t. Nico’s mouth pulls into a grin he can barely bite back, rubbing a hand over his jaw, his dimple deep in one cheek while he watches her like he’s gauging her, searching for something.

Ellie has no idea what.

Nico stands straighter, Ellie glances down, curious, so curious to know—

but he turns her stool back to the island, his hands bracing on either side of her as he leans down, his lips skim her shoulder, a soft press of his mouth to her neck.

“That’s good,” he murmurs, his voice tinged rough. “Eat your breakfast, have a bath, I’ll be back before you know it.”

Ellie huffs, trying to turn on the stool, but Nico stops her, his hand hot on her side.

“You look good in my shirt, Ellie, and it’s really hard to walk out the door knowing you’re not wearing anything underneath it.”

“How hard?” Ellie jokes, remembering the night before.

He presses a kiss to the skin behind her ear, his breath warm as he breathes out a little laugh, his hand falling away before it reaches her hip and he straightens, moving away. “I’ll be back soon, brat.”

Ellie laughs, turning to watch him grab a blazer off the counter, throwing a wink over his shoulder as he heads out the door.

 

With the sound of the lock and the ding of the elevator, Ellie bites her lip, scrunching her face up to hold in that bursting bit of joy in her belly.

 

 

 

  

 

 

                After she’s rinsed her plate and loaded it in the dishwasher, Ellie grabs the basket, carrying it upstairs and into the bedroom.

The bed is still unmade and part of her wants to crawl back into the soft of it. Roll into the warm spill of sunlight across white sheets, roll into the smell of him still lingering, roll into the memories of the night before… she tells herself that hopefully, _hopefully,_ she’ll get many, many more chances to be in it.

Naked. Optimistically.

Taking a minute to make it, Ellie tucks the sheets and straightens the duvet, remembering what it looked like every other time she saw it since that first morning she woke up in it.

After its fixed and she’s chased a few lingering wrinkles out of the covers, she starts pulling everything out of the basket, laying it on the bed to look over.

It’s _a lot_ and Ellie can’t help but laugh a little, wondering just how many he thinks she’ll need for one bath.

And then sobers, laughter fading as she gets caught on the on the realisation that it isn’t just for today. That there’s more than one bubble bath, more than one soap and shampoo and squishy bath puff. More than one bath bomb and moisturizer. There’s even a little toiletry bag with another toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, hairbrush, razors and deodorant.

She hears her phone ping, the sound startling her, the loft quiet and far too large while she’s all alone in it.

It takes her a minute to find it, her jeans still on the floor where they ended up the night before, partially inside out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

> N: There’s a spare bedroom on the other side of the loft if you don’t feel comfortable sleeping with me.
> 
> N: if you’re still staying the weekend, that is.

Ellie eyes the basket, the toiletry case, all of it clicking in as she realises why he gave her her own things.

Unsure how to respond in a way that isn’t just an over-eager _Yes,_ Ellie wanders back downstairs, realising that she must have missed the other side he’s talking about, and sure enough, it makes sense now that she thinks about it, that the elevator and the small hallway they use to enter his apartment isn’t the start of his loft, it’s just the middle of it.

Ellie passes by the kitchen, not sure how she missed the fact that there’s a long open space with an exposed brick wall, along what she thinks is the north side, the sunlight streaming in, the skyline clear and bright blue, broken by blacks and greys and whites, glinting glass and stone buildings just below and around them.

There’s another, smaller living room like area, a bit more modern, sparser in decoration and less lived in then the other side but still as well-decorated and comfortable.

The spare room lies at the end of a short hall; it’s glass and exposed brick, a soft, plush bed, a breath-taking view for a spare bedroom, offering the expanding cityscape eastward for miles and miles of stone and glass and skyscrapers.

For a second she wonders why he didn’t want this side, with the sun rising on this half of the apartment, but then she thinks about the view of Central Park, and can’t blame him when he could still catch the sunrise on the other side…

Now, she wonders what’s on the other side of his bedroom, as the smaller, upper level has a surrounding balcony as well. And apparently, she hasn’t really thought rationally about how his loft was even laid out.

Heading back upstairs, Ellie gives into her curiosity to wander (not snoop, she tells herself, just _wander_ ) and climbs the black staircase, metal cold on her feet and sending a shiver up her spine that reminds her that she’s wandering his house nearly naked.

Nearly naked after a night where he actually— Where they _almost_ —

Ellie bites back a smile; coming up the stairs and into his room, looking at the dividing wall she had assumed was the end of his room and realising it ends without meeting the glass wall opposite the bathroom and closet. Circling around the open side, she finds a small gym set up with a treadmill and weights, equipment dark and shining in the bright light.

 

 

 

 

 

 

> E: You have a gym.
> 
> E: In your bedroom.

There’s a tv hanging on the dividing wall, the news playing on mute. She guesses he must have worked out this morning while Ellie slept. Which makes her irritated with herself because she rarely sleeps in, and today of all days, she does.

There’s a little sitting area, coffee and tea, a supplement powder and a water jug gurgling quietly every so often.

 

 

 

 

 

 

> N: Not a gym. Equipment. There’s a gym in the building though. Feel free to use whichever you’d like.

She feels a little bit like she’s snooping now, as she picks up the powder, reading over the ingredients, but it’s nothing more than some healthy mix, which makes sense, she realises, knowing now how he looks beneath his clothes.

His upper half anyway.

She frowns at the coffee, poking one of the k-cups, in the holder, thinking about how he said he didn’t drink coffee.

But, he has a spare room, so she shrugs it off and figures it’s for whenever he has people over.

He’s very open with his space with her, anyway, maybe he’s just like that with everyone.

Which, she doesn’t want to think about because there’s no way he hasn’t had…

Ellie shakes her head, crossing back around the dividing wall and grabbing her toiletry bag.

 

 

She’s got a ridiculous tub to swim in.

 

 

 

 

                It’s _amazing._

_Awesome._

_Ridiculous._

 

 

The best thing she’s ever been in.

 

The bathtub takes long enough to fill that Ellie calls Mya, heading back downstairs to grab a glass of cranberry juice from the fridge and fill her friend in with where she is and what she’s currently doing.

And not… _doing._

“You seriously didn’t do _anything_ , _again,_ ” Mya asks, incredulous. “You slept in the same bed and wore his shirt and he didn’t even _try?_ ”

“I was drunk and I told you it’s not…I mean, I don’t know.”

“Are you sure he’s _straight?_ ” she scoffs, annoyed somehow, on Ellie’s behalf. “I can’t believe he hasn’t even tried to—”

Ellie thinks about the weight of his cock against her, his rough rolling voice, _baby,_ the scrape of his teeth as she peels off her clothes, the water still streaming, but the bubbles rising by the second.

“He’s straight, he’s…definitely straight.”

“Okay, then something _happened_ …What aren’t you telling me?” Mya accuses, voice tinny through speakerphone.

“It’s not…” Ellie sighs, dipping her toes into the water, skin prickling in the cold, stomach tightening as the hot water rushes through her body. “It’s hard to explain.”

“So… explain!” Mya urges. “You want him, El, I’m not _blind,_ and he has to like you, you’re in his bathroom, his bathtub, while he isn’t even _there_. That man obviously wants _something!_ ”

“I just…” Ellie breaks off, sinking into the water, heat stealing her voice and her thoughts, the bubbles pink tinted and smelling like vanilla and spice.

“He’s a lot older than me, you know, I think he’s… I mean, I’m aware of it, so he has to be. And it’s complicated, with— with who he is and my family and…all of… _that_.”

“Okay,” Mya pauses, thinking. “I get that. I understand why it’s…weird—”

 _Weird_ , Ellie thinks, _you’ve no idea._

“Like logically we both know why it _might_ be a bad idea, but it’s not like you’re in love with him, right… You’re not, are you?”

“No,” Ellie says, thinking about his smile that morning, about waking up in his bed, about falling asleep beneath the weight of his arms, his body heat surrounding, his heartbeat lulling. “It’s just complicated.”

“Well, in my most humble and honest opinion, I say fuck what you _should_ do, as long as you both are on the same page, as long as _you’re_ calling the shots, as long as you’re not getting hurt then… then do it, Ellie. _Do him_.”

Ellie laughs, cheeks flushed with heat, hair piled on her head, tendrils sticking to the damp of her skin.

“There are tons of couples who are years apart in age, decades even. I mean, my mom is ten years older than my dad, Professor Hethridge is what, five years older than your mom? I think my grandad was fifteen years older than my grandmum.”

“Except none of them were seventeen—”

“You’re eighteen in two months, El, I mean, I think it’s stupid, but if you wanted to wait for that then go for it. You’re not going to miraculously get smarter or more grown up or responsible in two months.”

“I know,” Ellie sighs.

“Listen, I get the hesitation. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t tried anything. I definitely figured he wouldn’t really care, with all the effort he was putting into seeing you, but I mean, I can be wrong too, it happens. Fucking rare, but it happens.”

Ellie laughs, Mya’s own laughter following, distant through the phone.

“I’m just saying, there’s no way he doesn’t want you, no guy goes through all this effort just to leave you naked in his bathtub.”

“Maybe,” Ellie mutters, flicking at the bubbles around her. “Or he’s not sure if it’s worth the risk—”

“Oh, c’mon El, you know what guys are like, you dated—”

“I don’t want to talk about him,” Ellie interrupts, and Mya cuts off, backtracking.

“I’m just saying, pussy is pussy, and men are men.”

“You’ve got an awful low opinion of men for a girl who likes them so much.”

Mya laughs, “I embrace their shortcomings, two heads and they only think with one.”

Ellie laughs, dropping her head back against the edge of the tub, letting her body float off the little step she was sitting on inside the tub.

She thinks about Nico pushing her leg down, about his refusal to touch her more, to let her touch him more, to kiss her…

His text, not an hour before, _if you don’t feel comfortable sleeping in my bed._

“Not all of them are like that.”

“No,” Mya agrees, a little quieter. “Just enough of them. Which is why I think you should do what you want, just…be careful and make sure it is what _you_ want.”

 

 

                And what does she want?

Surely they’ve already crossed a line… if the line ever existed between them at all.

 

 

 

 

                She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t lingering in the tub, half of her hoping Nico would come back while she was still naked; an excuse maybe, a way to close that last bit of hesitation, of hold on, of _almost._

Half her mind is distracted by imagining it: he’d come back, strip down, slip in behind her in the tub.  Slip _inside_ of her. Slip skin against skin and sweep sweet words between slick lips.

_Baby—_

All hot steam and hot air trapped between their mouths.

Ellie works the fantasies out, her body pink tinged in the heat, cheeks pink tinged with want, skin tinged pink with slippery oils and something slightly sparkly lingering in bubbles, her fingers slicked as her mind unwinds.

Because he’s all hard edges and heavy muscles and Ellie rolls her hips into his lap and presses her mouth to his, whispering, begging, his name slipping into that darker little want, the one still stuck on her tongue, the one she slips into her voice now, whispered, whimpered, into the steam of the bath.

 

_Daddy._

 

There’s no one to hear it, just the slosh of the water, her arching spine, her other hand slipping over marble and porcelain with a squeak, fingertips bleeding white.

 

 

 

 

                She’s wringing her hair in a towel, staring at her flushed reflection when the door opens and shuts downstairs; the sound echoing distantly.

Ellie can’t quite hold in her smile, nerves fluttering to life, the eagerness to see him and hopefully, hopefully finally _do_ _something_ even if it’s just to _talk_ about all of it—

She heads out of the bathroom, wrapped only in a towel and still drying fantasies. Body shiny and beading water, the cold pricking her skin, but she thinks _fuck it_ , having spent the last two hours trying to ease that ache with her own fingers, thinking about how he touched her, how he looked at her this morning, that he was _hard for her—_

And she finds it enough motivation now, for a little more boldness.

Except, she’s down six steps before she realises that the footsteps are not his, but louder, clicking—

High heels.

And then a voice, high and sweetened, something familiar in the way it forms the name.

“Nico!”

Ellie’s stuck still on the stairs, her heart dropping out of her, plummeting like a glass tipped over a counter edge; she grips the railing, bracing for the shatter.

There’s a woman, dark-haired, her heels sharp and red and shining as she lays a beige jacket over the island counter. The same spot Nico had left his that morning.

Her heels click on the floor, looking over the apartment, righting her dress as she walks, heading towards the stairs and calling out for Ellie’s... for Nico again.

There’s a moment where Ellie’s stuck still, feeling like she’s taken a punch to her stomach, bitter cold realisation sweeping through her veins as she watches the woman walk like she knows where she's going.

“Nic!”

She’s beautiful, Ellie thinks absently, something in the way she carries herself, in the soft dark of her eyes, in the soft shadow of her lips, perfectly plumped.

And then she looks up, her pace faltering, her eyes flickering wider before she catches her surprise and her features cool.

And Ellie restarts.

“Excuse m—”

 “Where’s Nicolas?” she bites out, eyes narrowing, mouth pursing. “And who are you?”

“He’s—”

“Is he up there?” The woman insists, glancing up the stairs as Ellie debates her choices to fight, flee or freeze.

“He’s not here,” Ellie gets out, moving on impulse, feeling outside of herself, her eyes stuck on the woman, the shape of her, the look of her, the confidence in which she occupies space.

_Nico’s space._

She makes it down the stairs, her hand tight on the railing, gripping her towel and feeling every little drip of her still wet hair, gathering, trailing down her back.

The woman’s lip curls, her eyes moving over Ellie not at subtly. “ _Blyad_. Where did he pick you up, Sunday school?”

Ellie scowls, face twisting at the implication. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”

“It’s none of your business, little girl. Where is Nicolas?”

“Work,” Ellie forces out, her knuckles white on her towel, hoping she doesn’t look as unstable as she feels. “He should be back soon.”

“And he left you here,” she sneers. “Alone?”

Ellie bites her tongue, ignoring the way the woman looks her over, bottom to top, slow and steady and weighing.

“How old are you?”

Ellie steps down a few more stairs, until she’s eye level with the woman, standing one stair higher; her knees feeling weak, but her voice sharp despite the tremble in her limbs. “That’s none of _your_ business.”

The woman’s jaw ticks, her eyes flashing. And then, she _smiles_ , white and sharp and not at all nice.

“Men,” she _tsks_ , her smile tilted, her head tilting. “Just can’t help themselves, can they?”

Ellie’s mouth opens, closes, anger flaring. “What?”

The implication isn’t missed, that Ellie’s just another girl in a rotation. Because men like Nicolas Cordova…

 “It’s not like that,” Ellie denies, but her heart thuds in her chest and she feels like being sick. She hadn’t even _thought_ he might not be single. Why hadn’t she even _considered it?_

 “You think you know a man, hm?” The woman trails off, her eyes moving over Ellie again before, her smile softer, but no less kind. She leans forward, just a little, her voice lowering like it’s some secret between girls. “Apparently he’s more perverted than I realised. I didn’t think he was into jailbait.”

“It’s not—” Ellie starts, cuts off, thinking about him taking her to dinner, about the champagne, about, _Believe me, Ellie, I know how old you are._

 “No? Tell me, darling, what is it like? Does he whisper sweet things to you? Tell you you’re special? Promise to love you forever…Poor little thing, I bet you believe it too.”

“I’m his daughter!” It breaks out of her before she can stop it, the urge to defend him, to defend herself, whatever the woman’s spitting gouges into her already breathless, aching chest and urges her on. “I’m his fucking kid and he’s not— _He’s not_ like that— so just—”

She swallows, forces it out. “ _Shut up_.”

The woman blinks, blinks again, her lips parting on an inhale. “His… what?”

“You think you know a man, right?” Ellie mocks and then looks at the door. “I’ll tell my _dad_ you dropped by.”

“ _Kid?_ ” the woman says again, her face twisting. “Since when—”

“About seventeen years ago, give or take. Surprised he didn’t tell you?” Ellie sneers, then catches herself, straightening a little more and moving past the woman towards the door. “So, if you wouldn’t mind…”

“Seven—” the woman shakes her head. “Wait, _darling_ —”

Ellie didn’t know darling could be so condescending, but the woman manages it somehow.

“My name’s Irina, I think I may have…” she looks Ellie over, something doubtful still lingering. “Jumped to conclusions, you can understand, can’t you? It’s very…surprising, is all. To find you here. You’re quite…young…looking. And naked. Quite naked.”

Ellie grips her towel, feeling seconds from being sick, a tremor in her bones, anger and disappointment and barely held in tears.

Because Nico locked the door when he left. She heard the click of it and—

On the counter, beside a beige jacket, a set of keys on a silver keychain.

“I’ll tell him you came by,” she repeats, tearing her eyes away from the bit of damning silver and opening the door. “But I think you should leave.”

Irina hesitates again, and then clears her throat, chasing a non-existent wrinkle out of the tight curves of her navy dress, heels clicking as she moves to grab her purse and jacket, taking her time pulling them on.

She watches Ellie as she does, her eyes sharp; as if Ellie’s a box of spare parts she’s trying to put together into something useful.

Or getting ready to throw away.

When she moves to pass Ellie, her hand grips onto Ellie’s chin. She’s tall, looking down at Ellie, her nails sharp.

“You’re not lying to me, are you, darling?” she asks, her head tilting a little, her hair shifting, a long dark curtain that smells sweet, clean, slightly floral.

A bitter, betrayed part of her wonders if the woman has been in the same bathtub Ellie just got out of.

Ellie’s body stiff, held still by the woman’s sharp, white tipped nails. “Nico’s never wanted children. He’s always been quite…vocal about that.”

Ellie keeps her face empty, biting her cheek so hard she tastes copper.

“You don’t look much like him,” she hums, turning Ellie’s head up more, examining her like she’s some small, spare piece she doesn’t know what to do with; her dark eyes searching Ellie’s face.

 “Lucky me,” Ellie grates out, tugging her head out of the grip.

 “Oh, _malyshka_ , we don’t want that.” Irina’s teeth glint. “Wouldn’t want our Nico to think we can’t get along, do we?”

Ellie says nothing, stepping away from the other woman, even as she holds the door ajar with a sharp, red-soled heel.

“Tell him— Actually, never mind, I’m sure I’ll speak to him first.” She smiles slowly, her lips pulling all wide and fake. “I’m sure he has some things to tell me. Secrets are never good for a relationship, malyshka, remember that.”

The woman is already pulling out her phone as she hits the elevator button, the screen lighting up—

Ellie doesn’t need to guess who she’s calling.

 

 

                The door shuts heavily. Ellie bolts it, ignoring the sound of Irina’s voice on the other side, her high, fond, too _familiar_ , _Nico!_ edging in through the door.

It’s a phone call Ellie decides she doesn’t want to stick around and hear.

Back upstairs, her body somehow numb and hyper-aware all at once, Ellie tries not to think about anything, not even as her throat tightens and acid builds up and burns like a flame in her stomach.

How stupid, she thinks, how stupid to not even think—

Why would a man like him be single? Why would a man like him spend months of his time on Ellie when he wasn’t getting anything out of it?

Mya’s voice rings in her head. _Pussy is pussy and men are men._

She tugs on her jeans, tears spilling as she struggles to get them on, her body shaking. She swipes at her cheek, biting her tongue, refusing to cry—

Refusing to cry over something that never should have happened anyway.

_Did he make you feel special?_

Ellie’s lip trembles as she searches the floor for her bra and underwear.

The memory of the night before twists, his arousal, his hesitation… was any of it because of her or was it just like Mya said, m _en are easy—_

Easy.

_They’re all the same. If you wanted, you could have him. There’s no way he’d say no._

How easy she gave into it, to _him_ , to the idea that he—

He what?

Wanted her?

Was she so obvious in what she wanted that the rest didn’t matter? Was that why it all seemed so easy for him?

And a part of her, stuck somewhere beneath the tumult of her emotions say _no_ , _no, that’s not what this is—_

_You know that's not what this is._

But, Ellie thinks about the woman, beautiful, tall, curved into the shape of someone meant to be beside someone like her father.

Not like Ellie, with her cotton shirt, her ripped jeans, her five foot one frame that’s more angles and sharp elbows then curves and grace and—

And _that_.

She can’t find her bra or her underwear. Frustrated, the tears spill, blurring her vision as she searches the floor; her breath shaking out of her, coming broken and uneven as she tries to hold it in.

She doesn’t want to cry here, not over this.

They weren’t, aren’t even… _anything._

Ellie straightens up, wiping the back of her wrist over her eyes, tilting her head back and breathing at the ceiling. Her chest shaking, hands trembling as she curls her fingers into her shirt.

 _Fuck it_ , she thinks. He can explain them to Irina, wherever they ended up.

 _Good luck, asshole_ , she thinks. Irina’s voice sharp and loud in her ears.

_Did you really believe him?_

 

 

 

                She stuffs her feet into her sneakers, the memory of their laughter the night before a souring thing in her belly, her heels crushing the side of the sneakers, her frustration building, blurring inside of her—

A choked breath that twists dangerously close to a sob breaks out of her chest and Ellie holds her breath, bending down, her hands shaking to try to get her foot in properly when she remembers her phone and lets out a frustrated and angry noise.

Back upstairs, her shoes quick and loud on each stair, her ringtone echoing through the upper level as she reaches for it, still vibrating as she picks it up.

Missed messages blink at her, her screen lighting up as she picks it up.

Ellie ignores it.

As she heads back downstairs, her phone vibrates again, another phone call, Nico's name on the bright-lit notification of an incoming call. She hesitates, staring at it—

And silences it, shoving it into her pocket, telling herself she doesn’t care.

What can he say, anyway?

_Forgot to tell you about the woman who has a key to my apartment? Forgot to tell you there’s someone who might be angry about a naked girl in my apartment. Forgot to tell you about—_

It’s better to walk away. Or run away, she’s gotten really good at that since she met him.

 

 

 

                Part of her mind tells her that stabbing the elevator button is useless, that stabbing it over and over is absolutely _stupid_ — but she does it anyway.

Pushing out a heavy breath, Ellie watches the elevator climb floors, the light above the doors changing at some snail pace she didn’t know existed and seems to defy possibility, every number slow to change, every floor longer and farther away.

She debates the stairs, knowing that there’s another way into the building, that there’s an entire hotel below and this isn’t the only elevator that runs to the top, it’s just the only one that doesn’t make other stops.

She presses the buttons on the other elevator too, with some blind hope it might come faster.

It doesn’t.

When the elevator finally dings open, Ellie steps inside, already stabbing the door close button and then the ‘P.’ Realising, as she does, she doesn’t really know how to get out any other way, he always brought her up through this elevator.

That should have been a sign, shouldn’t it, she thinks, berating herself. Always taking the parking level in.

Some part of her mind says, _don’t be stupid, he took you out, he wanted to take you out—_

But it’s drowned out by, _did he make you feel special?_

 _Yes,_ she thinks, his smile that morning, the way he looked at her, the way he touched her, the way—

The way he took her to bed last night, his hand in hers like it _meant something._

Pressed his body to hers, his mouth to the back of her neck, his breath warm, his heartbeat steady and heavy; his fingers long and curved through hers and said, _let me keep you this weekend,_ in the quiet dark of his bedroom.

Like it was—

 _Something_.

Heat builds in her throat, her vision blurring, the numbers above the doors melting together as they tick down and down and down.

With an aching chest and an unsteady breath, Ellie waits, wiping at her tears, blowing out shaky breaths and blinking up at the ceiling.

32—

Another breath.

 _Stupid_. She hitches. _Asshole_.

25—

18—

10—

The floors tick by while Ellie is thinking about anything and everything but how she feels, breathing more even, calming herself down as the elevator descends.

8--

It doesn’t matter.

6—

In the mirrored wall, Ellie pushes her fingers over the heat of her cheeks, willing the redness to fade, not wanting to walk through the streets like she is.

4—

It doesn’t matter.

2—

With a deeper breath, she tells herself it’s better this way, to know now. To leave while she can. To save herself…

Because she doesn’t think there’s any way she could survive it, him, all of—

Everything between them—

If they closed that last little distance filled with _almost._

But they didn’t.

The thought calms her, for some reason, as the elevator doors ding open and she’s walking out into the cold dark of the underground lot. That for better or for worse it’s probably better that nothing more happened between them. That they’ve already crossed a line, that Ellie crossed that line, one that exists, she thinks, for good reason.

And it isn’t right and it isn’t easy and it _shouldn’t happen._

It shouldn’t happen.

 

His other cars shine in the off-yellow florescent lights hanging above her; Ellie scoffs to herself, for thinking something like this would ever work out, that she never once questioned what he did when he wasn’t with her, why she never even _thought_ he was with someone else.

Why would someone like him want a seventeen-year-old girl who claimed to be his kid?

 _Maybe Irina is right_ , she thinks, acid burning in her throat at the thought. _Maybe he is a pervert._

 _Stupid_ , she mutters, sneaker scuffing the pavement. Hugging herself and heading towards the brighter light outside the underground, wishing she had worn a jacket last night.

The squeal of tires catches her attention first, the headlights—

Ellie tenses as a familiar slick vehicle slams into view. It breaks, sharply, burnt rubber filling the air, stopping just beside her.

Ellie clenches her jaw, walking faster away from it and towards the exit, daylight a beacon of freedom ahead of her.

A door opens, slamming shut, echoing in the space.

“Ellie!” Nico calls, his voice bouncing, angry, angrier than she thought he’d be. Isn’t even sure why he’s here, really.

Figured he’d still be on the phone with Irina. _Yes, that’s my daughter, no it’s not like that—_

Just like Ellie’s always said, again and again and again: _It’s not like that._

She ignores him, head down, moving faster towards the exit.

“Ellie, wait!”

His footsteps echo behind her, his hand closing around her wrist; she tugs it back, stumbling away from him.

“Don’t touch me!”

“Ellie—”

“Don’t—”

His hand curves around her arms again, tugging her towards him, and Ellie shoves at his hands, shoves at him, knocking his hands away when he reaching for her again, stepping around and in front of her to block the exit.

“Let me—” Nico starts, letting Ellie shove at him, stepping as she does, body too broad to get around without touching him.

“Move!” she makes a sound, frustrated and building, her anger burning, that sour, twisting sense of betrayal burning. _Which is stupid,_ she thinks _, they aren’t anything_. There’s nothing to betray.

“Just—” she shoves again and he grabs her wrists, Ellie yanking out of his hold and stumbles back. “Fuck off!”

“Ellie,” he steps again, his hands up, placating, blocking her, she isn’t sure, his face angry, his hair mussed. “It’s not what you think—”

“I don’t care!” she yells, “I don’t believe you!”

“I don’t know what she said to you—”

“Yeah, she seemed to have you pretty fucking pegged down,” Ellie spits. “You do this often?”

His eyes flash and when Ellie tries to dart by him again, he stops her, holding her arm, making sure she looks up at him.

 “Is that what you think?” he asks, voice low, tinged rough with anger, but there’s more too, something questioning, something hurt.

“I don’t know what I think,” Ellie spits at him, tilting back to look at him and tilting away to put space between them. She can’t _think—_

“I don’t know you, I don’t know _anything_ about you. You seem so fucking— so fucking calm about all of this—”

“Do I look fucking calm right now, Ellie?” he leans closer and Ellie yanks her arm back, shoving at him until he grabs her wrists, holding her still, stopping her ineffective shoves.

 “I will literally throw you over my shoulder kicking and screaming if I have to, sweetheart. Be smart.”

Ellie sneers at him, ashamed by the burn in her throat. “Fuck you!”

“Get in the elevator,” he orders, pushing her a little towards it, his voice angrier than she’s heard it before. “Now.”

Ellie tenses, looking towards the exit, debating.

“Don’t try it,” he states, face hard while Ellie grits her teeth, ready to go toe to toe with him. “I’m not arguing with you in a fucking parking lot, Ellie, get in the elevator.”

Jaw working, Ellie turns, yanking away from him when he tries to step closer to her.

“Asshole.”

“Yeah, and you’re a fucking brat, we’ve established this. Now get in the elevator.”

Ellie bites her tongue, making her way across the lot, putting space between them that Nico keeps closing, like he’s afraid she’s going to bolt.

“Irina is not my—”

“That’s not what she said.”

“She can say whatever she wants, doesn’t change the tru—”

“She has a key to your apartment,” Ellie interrupts, talking over him as they step into the elevator; which opens instantly because it _hates_ her.

 Ellie moving to the far side, putting as much space between them as she can in a metal box that’s going to climb the top of his building.

“She doesn’t, she has my _mother’s_ key,” he argues and Ellie scoffs. “Which, I’m just as fucking thrilled about as y—”

“Uh-huh.” Ellie looks away, swallowing, willing her tears to stay away. She’d rather be angry than start crying. “She knows your apartment. She knows your—”

“I know, I know how it looks!” he interrupts her, his voice sharp and too loud for the space. “Would you let me finish a fucking sentence, please.”

Ellie clenches her jaw, looking down and at the floor, catching sight of Nico’s hand stabbing at the control panel, the doors closing.

“Is there a reason you thought it would be a good idea to tell her you’re my daughter?

Ellie grinds her teeth, that sour feeling in her stomach pushing up her throat, heart creaking as she sneers at him, meeting his eyes. “Why, afraid she won’t take you back?”

His jaw ticks, anger sharp and bright and obvious. “I need you to think, for a fucking second, why I wouldn’t want people to know you’re my fucking daughter, Ellie.”

Ellie doesn’t say anything, her throat too tight. “I don’t know, everyone likes a guy with a kid, it might help you pick up girls—”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he curses, pushing out a breath, tugging a hand through his hair and then levelling her with a glare.

“I could call you daddy, think that’ll help?”

His eyes narrow, daggered to silver, his face dark. “Do you want to call me daddy, baby?”

“Don’t—” Ellie starts, because he’d said that word so nicely the night before and it’s not the same hearing it now.

He steps closer, his hand coming up to grab her chin, the broad line of his shoulders, the width of his body caging her in; Ellie tenses as he leans down, face too close, voice too deadly soft, too cruelly rough, too _much_.  “Is that what you want?”

“Fuck you,” Ellie pushes out, as angry as it is hurt.

Ellie knocks his hand away, and again when Nico, undeterred, lifts his hand to her cheek, softer, easing along her skin like she’s a wild thing bound to bolt.

“Ellie…” he murmurs.

She turns her head, his fingertips warm, his palm too hot, his thumb edging under her chin, digging in to turn her head back to look at him.

 When she won’t, his other hand comes up, cupping her face, urging her head to tilt, to face him…

“You’re so frustrating,” he says, tinted with frustration, but quieter, rougher. “Just shut up, please.”

Ellie bites her tongue, pressing back into the elevator wall, looking away, can’t bear to look up at him.

He doesn’t say anything for so long that Ellie starts to think he won’t say anything at all, but then his hands shift, just a little, and his thumbs brush under her eyes, his fingertips sinking into her still damp hair.

“Were you crying?” he asks, his voice so low it makes her shiver.

She hates that her lip trembles, but she forces out: “Does it matter?”

It’s uncomfortable, her head tilted up, held still while he looks down at her, the distance between them always twists her stomach and it’s no different now, can’t help the beat of her heart, the ache to press into him.

(To bury herself into his chest, turn her face into his pulse and find comfort in the weight of his arms.)

“Of course it matters,” he murmurs; something absolute, wounded, aching in the roll of his voice sinking through his chest and into her body. Ellie closes her eyes, ignoring the leak of a tear, hot and wet, that he catches on her eyelash with the pad of his thumb and slicks along her cheekbone.

“Ellie, look at me.”

Ellie shakes her head or tries to, it’s weak in the spread of his hands cupping her face.

Nico tightens his grip, just a little, voice urging, _please look at me._

Ellie hesitates, his thumbs brushing beneath her lash line, chasing a weak leak of frustration and anger and hurt—

And then she does, and his face makes her want to close her eyes again because it’s _aching_ with… with something desperate, something wanting, something dark.

She doesn’t think she’s ever seen so much on his face as this.

Nico’s hands tighten, just a little more, keeping her still, even though Ellie wants to tell him she’s stuck, rooted, her fingers white-tipped against the cold wall of the elevator behind her; caught in the orbit of his body around hers. Stuck in the gravity of his voice and heat and words. 

“ _Baby_ ,” he whispers, all rough and dark and _desperate_. “I’ve been fucked up over you since the _moment_ I saw you.”

His hands shift, palms cupping her cheeks as he kisses her forehead, her nose, the corner of her mouth. Ellie lets him. Trembling.

“I saw you, that night in my club, Ellie, and you were the prettiest goddamn thing I’d ever seen.”

Nico stops, searching her face, Ellie isn’t sure what he’s looking for; if he’s even looking for anything or just struggling to find words like she is.

Her heart feels like it’s thudding along to some war-drum beat, or maybe to the pulse-beat of a club; a few drinks in, that full-bodied, chest thumping, bone-rattling feeling of getting lost to bodies and music.

"And then my bouncer says _daughter,_ and I…" Nico steps back, just once, his hands falling away from her face. The world seems colder, with the heat of his body and hands easing away from her.

Ellie feels like the earth shifts in the absence of him, her fingers twitching against the metal behind her, a protest in her throat to tell him to stay. To come back. To touch her again. It always seems so much easier to bear when he’s touching her in some way.

But he stays away, giving her room to listen, to breathe, to _hear_ him.

How could she not _hear_ him? It’s everything she should be thrilled to hear, everything she was afraid would be too much to say out loud.

Everything she’s been afraid shouldn’t ever be said _out loud._

“I told myself to let it go. To let you go. That I haven’t ever wanted to be a father. That _I_ couldn’t be _your_ father.”

He looks down at her, eyes shadow, voice low. She doesn’t know what to make of how easily he rights himself, his voice the only bit of emotion left to read, his image controlled but for that rough, desperate abrasive edge to his words.

The elevator dings between breaths and the doors open to the top floor. Neither one of them moves.

“I told myself to forget about you, to pretend it didn’t happen. That it was some fucking mix of alcohol, music or…fucking lighting, I don’t know. You were there and then gone, and I thought, _good,_ it’s better that way.”

Ellie watches him, feeling dizzy; torn between holding onto his words, still echoing in her eardrums, as he tells her how much he didn’t want her at first.

It stings a little, more than it should; that maybe, if there wasn’t this thing between them, this fucked up thing neither of them can ignore, she might never have gotten to know him.

“But I couldn’t let it go. I told myself I was just finding out more about you. How you were, who your mother was. If I really was even your father.”

He snorts, a rush of air and twisted humour. “Some fucking one-night stand seventeen years ago and there you were. And there I was, tracking you down.”

“I told myself I was only going to meet you. I was only going to tell you that I couldn’t be your father. To let you know that I _shouldn’t_ be someone in your life, and then… then you ran again, and I thought, okay, that’s easy, that’s done...”

“But I couldn’t stop thinking about you, I… convinced myself that it was some misplaced fucking responsibility, that I wanted to make sure you were okay, that you didn’t need anything that you were…” He scrubs a hand through his hair, shaking his head, his smile ill-humoured and self-depreciating. “…fucking happy, I don’t know.”

“And then you went to that bar and I watched you dance with these sloppy fucking frat boys and I _couldn’t…_ I couldn’t fucking stand it.”

He meets her eyes and Ellie almost wants him to stop, wants to urge him to keep talking. Wants him to shut up.

Wants to run.

 _Fight or flight or freeze_ , she thinks.

Wants to tell him she felt the same, right from that first moment. Caught in the pulse-beat of the music, the shifting lights, the weight of his eyes locked on hers…

“So, I took you home. And I told myself it was okay to know you. That I could know you and not want you. That I could be a father if you wanted me to.”

He laughs again, more humoured this time, reaching out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingertips lingering on her skin, brushing her neck, the soft skin behind her ear.

“And when that didn’t work and I still wanted you, when I still— I promised myself I wouldn’t touch you. That I could still know you as long as I didn’t touch you. But I broke that rule every fucking time I was with you. I couldn’t _not_ —” he shakes his head, his hand sinking, seeking the too fast, hummingbird beat of her pulse, curving along the side of her neck, thumb slipping along her jaw.

“I couldn’t not touch you.”

Ellie feels a tremor in her bones like she’s a chord being strung out on his voice and fingers, calmed only with a touch, a firm hand… as he strokes his thumb over her bottom lip before dropping his hand and stepping away again.

“So, I told myself I wouldn’t flirt with you. That touching with intent was what mattered. That the intent to do more wasn’t there. That as long as you didn’t know the fucking things in my head it would be fine.”

He huffs a laugh like he finds it funny in some twisted way.

“But it was all a fucking lie, Ellie. I was making excuse after fucking excuse because I saw you in that club and I have wanted you _every_ _fucking day since then_.”

It goes quiet, the doors grind closed, and the only thing that Ellie can scrape out of her throat is:

“Who is she then?”

Nico sighs, stepping away again, leaning back against the other wall of the elevator, a small distance that somehow feels like miles as he crosses his arms. His shoulders tense, his eyes moving over her like he’s remembering something, thinking about something.

“That day I asked you out for dinner, you kissed my cheek, remember?”

Ellie nods, frowning, unsure why he’s bringing it up; Nico smiles, a flash of a thing that disappears as soon as it spreads across his face in a white glint.

“You kissed my fucking cheek, Ellie, and I’d never been so fucking hard in my life. And I knew that I was lying to myself, I knew I wanted you, I knew it wasn’t going away. But— but I knew I couldn’t walk away, as much as I knew I _should_.”

Ellie remembers it, remembers the moment, climbing out of the car, barely even being able to look at him because she knew there was _something_ between them that shouldn’t be there.

“That night I had dinner with my family, it was my sister’s birthday. Irina was there.”

Ellie’s pretty fucking sure she doesn’t need him to say it, she already knows where this is going.

“I thought…” he pushes out a breath, a hand coming up to rub over his jaw. “I made a choice, Ellie, and it was the wrong one. I can’t justify it.”

“You don’t have to,” Ellie forces out because she suddenly does not want him to _say_ it. “We weren’t— _aren’t_ anything.”

The elevator goes silent, the small space somehow expanding, the distance multiplying. Nico’s jaw ticks, his head tilting, just a little, eyes shadowed as he looks down at her.

“If we aren’t anything, then why are you upset? If it doesn’t matter to you who I fuck—”

“I thought she was your girlfriend!” Ellie interrupts, voice sparking high. “I thought…she said—” she stands straighter, her chest cracking out a frustrated noise. “She asked where you picked me up, like you do this all the time! She asked me if I thought I was special, if I actually fucking believed you—”

Ellie shakes her head, tilting her head up, feeling that tell-tale burn behind her eyes and blinking it away. When she looks back down Nico looks angry, his jaw tight, his body held tight.

“But she called you a pervert, because I was still in a towel and I looked like a fucking kid next to her, and— and I got mad, because that’s not what this is and I know it, I _know_ that’s not what it is. It just came out of me, I just wanted her to shut up, I couldn’t listen to it. And I thought, if she really was your girlfriend then it’d be easier.”

“Easier?”

Ellie shrugs, leaning back against the elevator. “If you had to explain me away.”

“Jesus, Ellie.” His head thunks back against the wall behind him, his chest shifting as pulls in a breath and exhales, all long and slow like he’s trying to gather himself, his temper, his thoughts. “How do you still not get it?”

When he looks back at her his eyes are shadowed and dark and it’s _intense._

“I fucked Irina because after you kissed my cheek, I went home and I jerked off. I thought about you in your little fucking school uniform, licking whip cream from a fucking fork and I just…” he huffs a laugh. “There you were looking for a fucking father and I was thinking about fucking you.”

He laughs, pushing a hand through his hair. “I mean, it wasn’t even the first time I’d thought about it, it was just the first time I let myself get off to it. To you.”

Ellie bites her cheek, not sure what to say, not sure what to do. Remembering all the times she’d been lost to those same imaginings, strung tight on maybes, on _pleases_ , on _Daddy—_

She kind of wants to tell him that she might still be more fucked up than him.

But she doesn’t know how to say it, how to scrape those words out of her mouth like he does. How easily he admits it, how easily he seems to rectify what he wants to the reality of who they are to each other.

“For the first time in my life, I questioned what kind of man I was. And I didn’t have an answer,” Nico starts, eyes heavy on her. “It was a stupid choice, a fucking stupid decision to fuck her, I knew it even while I was fuc—”

“Don’t.” Ellie winces away from hearing it, she doesn’t know why it bothers her so much hearing him say it. There was nothing between them then, nothing but a feeling, a what if, a _maybe._

She doesn’t have a right to feel so… _hurt._

“Just… _stop_.”

But he doesn’t, and Ellie can’t help but listen.

“I thought I could scratch the itch. That I could work it out of my system. That I could find a way to temper my… my reactions to you and still keep you.”

_Keep you._

Her heart skips a beat.

“Is that what you want?” Ellie looks up at him, voice too quiet, too desperate to hear _yes_. “To keep me?”

Nico makes a noise in his throat, surprise, a flicker of disbelief on his face.

“Do I want to keep you?” he asks, meeting Ellie’s eyes, the quiet of the elevator hums between them, a breathing, living thing.

Nico straightens, shifting away from the wall, and Ellie can’t tear her eyes off him, can’t get her voice to work, can’t _move._

“I know you don’t have any reason to trust me. That I haven’t given you any reason to trust me,” he looks away, reaching out to press the open doors button on the elevator panel. “But I need just a little bit of trust from you right now.”

The doors open, still sitting idle on the top floor.

 “I need to know what you want,” Nico states, taking a step back, his eyes still locked on hers. “I need you to be sure you know what _you_ want. Because I know what I want.”

He’s giving her a choice, she knows. Space to decide. To stay or go.

“I want to keep you for as long as you’ll fucking let me, Ellie.”

 Ellie’s heart skips, double-times, watching him turn to leave the elevator, leaving her with a choice—

 

To close that last little bit of hesitation.

 

Of maybe.

 

Of _almost._

 

 

 


	9. Part One, IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun dun
> 
> IT BEGINS!
> 
> Hope you all enjoy the new chapter! Let me know what you think!

* * *

Chapter IX

* * *

 

 

 

Ellie’s heart skips a beat.

 

 

“Is that what you want?” Ellie looks up at him, voice too quiet, too desperate to hear _yes_. “To keep me?”

Nico makes a noise in his throat, surprise, a flicker of disbelief on his face.

“Do I want to keep you?” he asks, meeting Ellie’s eyes, the quiet of the elevator hums between them, a breathing, living thing.

Nico straightens, shifting away from the wall, and Ellie can’t tear her eyes off him, can’t get her voice to work, can’t _move._

“I know you don’t have any reason to trust me. That I haven’t given you any reason to trust me,” he looks away, reaching out to press the open doors button on the elevator panel. “But I need just a little bit of trust from you right now.”

The doors open, still sitting idle on the top floor.

 “I need to know what you want,” Nico states, his eyes locked on hers, standing too close and not near enough all at once. “I need you to be sure you know what _you_ want. Because I know what I want.”

He’s giving her a choice, she knows. Space to decide.

To stay or go.

“I want to keep you for as long as you’ll fucking _let me_ , Ellie.”

Ellie’s heart skips, double-times, watching him turn to leave the elevator, leaving her with a choice—

 

To close that last little bit of hesitation.

 

Of maybe.

 

Of _almost._

 

 

 

 

                She thinks, isn’t it obvious?

 

 

Haven’t her wants been written on her face, coloured pink on her cheeks, tinting every glance away, every too long look, every moment where the lines blur and Ellie’s left stumbling in the wake of what he does to her?

 

Isn’t it obvious?

 

But, Nico’s turning away. Her _father’s_ turning away and her choices are narrowed down to the sight of him leaving her to decide something she thinks she’s known to be inevitable since that day she pressed her lips to his cheek and the world…shifted.

(Was it then, or was it that first moment, just like he said, beneath the lights of his club and stuck rooted to the spot, heart thumping in the bass beat until she’d panicked and run. That feeling in her chest, an inescapable thing.)

She isn’t sure if it’s instinct, reflex, pure reaction to him leaving, or the answer to _I need to know what you want—_

But Ellie feels like she’s stuck in molasses, like the world is moving too fast around her even as her body slows down to a slow ticking clock hand—

She reaches out, grabbing for him like he’s a tether that’s slipping away in a dark tide. Her hand gripping for his jacket sleeve; her fingers knotting in, wrinkling fabric beneath her grip as she tugs him, half pulling him back, half just stopping him from leaving.

She thinks to say, _wait, wait, I already know—_

But there’s no voice in her chest, just air caught in her throat as he stops and starts to turn back towards her. The dark of the hair on the back of his head, the first curve of his cheekbone, the strong lines of his profile, the shadowed dark of his eyes as he looks down at her hand, at her.

 

It’s all so _slow_.

 

Like she’s outside of her body as she steps away from the wall, one step and her other arm reaches for his shoulder; another step, her fingers twisting in and pulling him down towards her. Another step—

And Nico leans down like it’s just as instinctual for him, reflex, pure reaction to catch her as Ellie all but throws her body into his—

It’s awkward and graceless, but she _needs_ him to know, to feel it if he can’t see it, because how can’t he see it?

 

Isn’t it fucking obvious?

 

It’s awkward and graceless; Ellie pulls and Nico bends and the first touch of his hands on her waist make her heart trip even as she presses her mouth to his.

For a millisecond, it’s nothing more than skin on skin, lips on lips, breath stuck in each other’s mouths—

Ellie thinks to say, _I know what I want—_

But time restarts and Nico’s hands tighten, his grip as hard and as careless as the way she wraps her arms around his neck, fingers scratching, digging into the short dark hairs at the base of his skull, her head angling to seal her mouth over his.

Their lips slide, hot and electric from that moment of shared air and the first brush of full contact makes her whole body _gasp._ A stomach tightening, body squirming jolt that steals air and thought and _everything_ but the need for more.

 

Nothing but body and breath and beating hearts.

 

Her arms tighten, nails sinking into his skin, desperate to get closer, nearer, to get swallowed up in him.

Ellie can’t help the noise that slips out as Nico’s hands shift from her waist to her ass and he hauls her up and into his body so quickly it steals that last little bit of air from her lungs.

She inhales against his mouth and he swallows the sound, kissing her again, deeper than before as her legs circle his waist.

For all the ways Ellie’s spun slippery, shameful fantasies of kissing him, she never imagined it would be like _this_ :

Hot, desperate, rough, a scrape of his teeth along her bottom lip, a slick little apology on the path his tongue takes after, chasing the sting, sweeping over it and into her mouth.

 

It’s not a _nice_ kiss.

 

It’s not anything like she imagined a first kiss would be like with him. Always something slower, something soft, something full of: _is this okay?_

Something full of expected hesitations, questions, a kiss in the dark of a bedroom behind a locked door.

 

_Can I?_

 

 It’s not this kiss—

 

This kiss is hard and deep and Nico steals her breath even as he gives her back his own. Even as her back hits the wall of the elevator, knocking another noise out of her chest.

The short edges of her nails scrape his skin, his scalp, the fabric of his jacket; her body pressing harder into his, not caring about the burn in her lungs as long as he keeps kissing her the way he is. All hot and rough and _desperate_.

Nico kisses her like he’s been _aching_ to do it, like he’ll never get another chance, like he’s opening her up on every path of teeth and tongue and pouring all his wants inside of her.

His hands grip tighter when Ellie bites at his bottom lip; wants to give as good as she gets, wants to deal it back ten-fold and tell him he’s fucking blind if he didn’t know.

Every tooth scrape, every wet slip of lips, every too deep, too hard kiss that feels seconds away from the sweetest sort of asphyxiation.

 

But she still wants _more_.

 

Ellie squirms into him, one hand lost to his hair, the other gripping into the thick of his jacket, pushing as she tries to sink lower on his body. Can feel the edges of his belt on the back of her calves, wants him to ease his grip just a little, just enough for her to feel—

Nico’s kiss falters, his smile breaking out against her lips, his hands grip, ease, grip onto her ass cheeks in a distracting, groping sort of hold as he shifts her higher, scraping smiling bites along her jawline, teeth scraping kisses onto her neck, holding her higher, farther away from where she wants to be.

Wants to try all those things she didn’t get to do last night, to roll her hips against his lap, to feel the weight of his cock, the weight of his want and build it into some rolling, burning thing.

Ellie whines, she isn’t even ashamed to admit it, knotting her fingers into his jacket, half lost to the heat of his mouth on her neck…and then, he scrapes his teeth over her pulse and then latches on, all heat and pressure and Ellie gasps, head thunking back against the elevator wall, fingernails scraping his scalp as she squirms into his arms, unable to stay still.

He makes a noise, a bitten back curse that rolls through the heavy weight of his body pinning her to the wall.

Ellie uses the height he holds her at to push her hands into his hair and tilt his head back.

Nico looks up at her, their eyes meeting as his head tilts, her mouth hovering over his, his breath hot on her mouth before she kisses him, pulling herself a little higher in his arms to kiss him harder; his hair between her fingers, inky dark and smooth.

In between the slide of their lips and smooth soft of their tongues, Ellie feels something vibrate against her calf, but she’s too caught up in him to care.

When she turns her head, chest desperate for a breath, Nico’s lips slip along her cheek, his breathing rough, his lips hot as he presses damp, biting kisses on her skin; his body shifting as he stands straighter, pulling them away from the wall.

She holds onto his shoulders, even though she thinks she doesn’t need to, Nico holds her easily, shifting her a little to push the door open, locking it behind him.

When she hears the deadbolt slide home, she nearly laughs.

Nico sets her on the kitchen island, and Ellie wants to complain about the loss of his hands on her but all he does is shift his grip, slipping up the edge of her shirt, palms heavy and fingers spread wide to circle her waist.

And then he tugs her right to the edge of the counter, shocking a breath out of her, a gasp he swallows down, licking back into her mouth, as Ellie wraps her legs around his waist eagerly.

In between one kiss and the next, Ellie feels Nico’s phone vibrating again, but she’s too concerned with shoving at his jacket to care about the vibrations beneath her thigh.

He lets go of her only long enough to help her push the jacket off his shoulders, tugging it off the rest away, dropping it carelessly to the floor before his hand is curving along the back of her neck to pull her mouth back to his.

Ellie leans up and into him, pressing her chest into his, her legs tighter, wishing the counter were lower so she could feel more of him.

His other hand slides over her thigh, her hip, up under her shirt; fingers hot on her skin as his hand spreads wide in the curve of her spine, holding her closer, tighter against him.

She isn’t sure what it says about her that she’s thrilled he isn’t gentle; that his hands grip and grope at her like he can’t get enough of feeling her… that the hand in her hair tightens, holds her still as he leans a little more over her; her body tilted, ass perched right on the edge.

Nico’s mouth slips away from hers and he sucks a mark into her neck, harder then before, dragging a noise out of her chest, her fingers gripping onto his shirt, body twitching with the jolt of electric heat that sparks out from his mouth and through her body.

And then his phone vibrates again.

With a torn, irritated noise in his throat, Nico reaches into his pants pocket, pulling out the still vibrating phone and all but tosses it on the counter.

The hand in her hair tightens and eases, his breath heavy on her neck before he scrapes his teeth, pulling another mark to the surface.

She doesn’t know if it’s her or his mouth or it’s just how long she’s _wanted_ him, but the pressure of his mouth and weight of him leaning into her makes her _unravel_ and she can’t stay still. Feeling half boneless and strung tight, like he’s got strings attached to his fingers and he plays her like a marionette.

A building heat in her body, all electric tipped.

Nico grips her hip, trying to hold her still as his hand slips out of her hair, his mouth on her neck, her clavicle, the thin skin of her chest—

His mouth hot, damp, all tooth-scraping, slick-tongue kisses on her skin turning to skimming kisses over her shirt as the hand holding her hip caresses her side, up along her ribs, over the shifting of her stomach before curving around to the shifting arch of her back; a long, heavy stroke up her spine.

Notch by notch, his fingers bump along vertebrae; her shirt rising as he tilts her, leaning her back against the counter.

He nips at the tense, flat of her stomach, his hand spread wide in the curve of her spine, presses hot, open-mouthed kisses towards her hip—

And his phone vibrates again, on the counter beside her head.

Ellie blinks at him, her fingers lost his hair, trying to find her words, thinking, _phone phone you should—_

And then a knock breaks through the loft.

He ignores it, his fingers curling into the hem of her jeans, tugging them a little lower, his teeth scraping her hipbone, dragging a hitching noise from Ellie’s body to match the hitching rise of her spine.

The knock comes again.

 

“ _Nicolas_.”

 

He stops. Body going still.

 

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me _?_ ” Nico groans, all rough and low and barely audible for the roll of it; his mouth breaking away from her skin, his forehead resting on her hip, his fingers still curled under her jeans, thumb through a belt loop.

Ellie’s back is still arched, held up by his hand in the arc of her spine, his breath heavy on her hip.

Ellie swallows, her heart beating faster for a different reason. A woman’s voice…she doesn’t think it’s the same one from this morning.

Her body tenses as the knocking comes again and Ellie stares at the high ceiling, blinking into the lights hanging above them.

Nico doesn’t say anything, his forehead on the still unsteady shifting of her belly.

“Of all the fucking times,” he mutters, his fingers slipping out, a brush of his nails that makes her body twitch and Ellie has to bite her lip to hold in the shiver it spreads along her skin.

When his hand slips out from beneath her back, Ellie sinks flatter against the counter, looking down at Nico who still hasn’t moved despite another knock travelling heavy through the loft.

“I refuse to yell through this door, Nicolas,” the voice tightens, not louder, but sharper.

He huffs into Ellie’s stomach, his eyes closed, lashes dark, hair falling out of place as his breath puffs hot and heavy on her stomach.

“How many girlfriends do you have?” She means it to be joking, but it’s tinged, just a little, by doubt.

Nico bites her, quick and sharp and Ellie jolts away, a laugh jerking out of her.

When he straightens, standing up, Ellie follows, sitting up as he braces his hands on either side of her, leaning against the counter, caging her in.

His face irritated, slightly flushed, lips red from kissing.

 _Kissing me,_ Ellie thinks. Nico looks at her, searching her face but not saying anything, his hair mussed, shirt slightly wrinkled from Ellie’s fingers knotting into it. And then, he leans forward, just a little, presses a little kiss to her mouth and then—

“Misplace your key, Ma?”

Another kiss, catching her bottom lip, a slow scrape of his teeth.

 _Ma_? Ellie thinks, her head turning to the door, sitting straighter, nerves ticking high.

She braces her hands on his shoulder when he leans in again, thinking he’s crazy, _this is crazy_ —

 

His _mother_ is right outside the door.

 

Nico kisses the side of her mouth, her cheek, his hands on her thighs and moving back towards her hips like he can’t _not_ touch her.

Just like he said.

Ellie still thinks he’s crazy.

“Uhm,” she starts, swallows, half distracted by his hands holding her right to the edge of the counter, his mouth trailing down her jaw as he leans a little into her.

“Misplace my phone number?” the woman calls. “Or just misplace the fact that I have a granddaughter in there?”

 

_Granddaughter._

 

Ellie is pretty sure her heart just stopped, but Nico laughs, low and quiet over her shoulder.

“I’ll call you later then, yeah?” he calls out. “When I get my keys back.”

“I have your keys, dear, I’m being polite by not using them.”

At that, Nico does pause. Head turning towards the door and then down at himself.

And then he laughs again. Standing straight, running a hand through his hair—

“Fuck,” he mutters, entertained in a way she doesn’t understand, feels like every last inch of her has gone cold with the _idea_ of just who is on the other side of that door.

“Now, how about you open this door so I can meet her, hm?”

Ellie stiffens, her eyes going wide, she isn’t really going to have to meet her right now, is she?

“I can’t meet her like this,” Ellie whispers.

Nico laughs quietly, eyebrows shifting like, _you think?_ Tugging his hair and stepping away from her and looking down.

Ellie doesn’t understand why until she catches sight of the still very obvious weight of his cock in his pants, his arousal still a hard, thick line, enough that Ellie feels a flicker of her own trying to reignite despite the woman waiting on the other side of the door.

It’s hard— she presses her lips together, holding in a laugh— _impossible_ to miss in the daylight. Ellie bites her lips to hold in her smile, excitement and eagerness and happiness a bubbling thing inside of her.

“I think I must have pissed someone off,” Nico drawls, leaning down to grab his jacket, pulling it on and Ellie gets distracted for a second, watching the shift of his body. She can’t help but look at him, at the _evidence,_ maybe, of what they were doing.  

She has no idea how he’s going to hide it.

“What, your mom?” she asks, trying to focus and tear her eyes away from his lap.

“No,” he laughs. “More like God. This is cruel, unusual punishment for wanting to fuck you.”

Ellie blinks at him, eyes darting down again, back up, mind struggling to understand if he’s joking or not.

Nico smiles, mouth quirked, completely aware of what Ellie’s looking at. “Don’t worry, I’ve gotten good at hiding it when I’m around you.”

Ellie thinks he’s mental if he thinks he can hide that thing, but he shoves his hands in his pockets, and he goes from smirking and ruffled to calm and collected in less than a blink.

“Nothing like getting cockblocked by your mother,” he says, completely straight-faced and then leans down to press his mouth to hers. His smile crooked. “Don’t run away on me, El.”

And then he winks at her, turning away and heading towards the door; Nico slips out and she catches the edges of the woman’s—

His _mother’s_ voice, through the open door before it clicks shuts:

 

 “A _child_ , Nicolas. A _daughter_ —”

 

It’s vaguely like déjà vu, the morning caught in a cycle, moments of bursting happiness and then…

A door shutting, leaving her alone to her own waiting, wanting body and an empty loft.

Ellie sighs, leaning back on the counter, her hand knocking into a something that crinkles under her fingers.

She looks back, twisting to see what it was and finds the black bag that had been sitting beside her basket this morning… realising she forgot about it in her eagerness and distraction.

 ( _For him and a bath,_ she thinks.)

With a curious frown, Ellie reaches for it, pulling the square-ish bag onto her lap. The black paper wrinkles as she reaches in, pulling out a soft bit of fabric, a dress, she realises. It’s simple, thin strapped and black with a row of small, off-white buttons down the front of it.

Beneath the dress, Ellie’s fingers brush another bit of soft fabric, feeling her cheeks warm when she pulls out two bits of lace; a bralette and panty set in a pale pink.

She glances at the door, her teeth in her lip.

 Pushing off the counter, Ellie takes off upstairs to get dressed.

 

 

 

 

                She’s just heading back downstairs to wait for him when she hears the front door opening, tensing, ready to accept meeting his mother if she has to, plastering a smile on her face and trying to not look like the kind of girl that just peeled off her jeans and had to wipe off the sticky-slick of her arousal from the between her legs after making out with…

 

 _Well_.

 

 _Pick one_ , Ellie thinks:

That woman’s son. A man twice her age.

Ellie’s father.

 

 _D,_ Ellie thinks. _All of the above_

 

The door opens and Ellie pauses on the stairs, breathing a sigh of relief when Nico is the only one to enter.

His eyes find her instantly, crossing the loft and closing the distance between them just as Ellie’s reaching the second to last step.

“Your grandmother would like to meet you,” he says easily, like that shouldn’t at all be the exact opposite thing to come out of his mouth when he’s looking at her like that.

Ellie looks over to the door as if expecting the woman to be there, to come charging in…

“What, now?” she asks. Thinking that it’s possibly the last thing she wants to do; doesn’t understand how he can look at her like that and still talk about their…their family.

Because it’s hers, too, isn’t it?

 

_Your grandmother._

 

“Tonight, I tried to put it off but my mother can be…well, it’s probably best you meet her before you have to meet everyone else.”

“Everyone else?” Elle asks, nerves spiking.

“Welcome to the family, sweetheart. News travels fast,” Nico says, like he’s trying to make it a joke, but there’s a tinge of annoyance in it.

He steps up to the last step, looking over her. “You put everything in that bag on?”

Ellie nods, her teeth in her cheek.

Ellie wants to ask what he’s looking at, what he sees when he looks at her, what he’s thinking about… wants to ask him about his family, about him, about how they’re going to deal with all of this—

But his hand is on the railing, his smile wide, looking her over.

“You know,” he starts, his eyes gleaming. “This morning I was looking forward to coming back to a pretty little wet thing in my bathtub…. but you’ll do.”

Ellie flushes, stepping down the last step, almost eye to eye with him. He seems to notice it too, that he’s still taller, because his eyes flick down and back up, slow and purposeful; a crooked smirk growing.

“I did wait,” she says, tongue slipping out to wet her lips, feeling like a magnet being pulled in towards him, her hand tight on the railing, trying to hold her ground. “Wasn’t so keen on being the other woman.”

His smile falters. “How can I convince you that you’re the only one?”

Ellie thinks about all the things she wants and dreams about and spends herself over on the wet of her fingers…she thinks about how she felt this morning when he smiled at her, about going to bed with him.

Thinks about how much more she wants.

But she doesn’t have an answer for him, doesn’t know how to put her thoughts into words the way he does, to give voice to all those little shameful parts of her that know who he is and who she is and can still say:

 

_I want you._

 

_I know what I want._

 

Like it isn’t something… _wrong._

 

“Do we need to talk about this more?” he asks, eyes shifting minutely over her face like he sees her thoughts laid out like a map of constellation points.

She really doesn’t want to talk about this more. _Or_ ever _,_ she thinks _._

Thinks its all so much easier when he’s touching her and kissing her and—

So, it’s easiest then, to just do and not _say._ To press her mouth to his, just lips to lips, her eyes closing.

Nico doesn’t move for a heartbeat and then his hands come up to cup her cheeks, to hold her still while he slows it all down, to kiss her so much slower than before.

Ellie thinks she’s wrong, that it’s not easier when he’s kissing her, not when he kisses like _this_ —

This too sweet, too slow thing filled up with feelings she doesn’t think there are words for. Something outside of that aching, starving kiss that was more about sating a need than anything else.

This kiss is still not those secret, shameful kisses she thought about in the dark behind her eyelids.

She isn’t sure what kind of kiss this is, only that she’s never kissed like this before.

When he stops, Ellie thinks she nearly forgot how to breathe, pulling in a too deep breath, his lips brushing hers before one of his hands takes hold of hers. Nico steps away from her, his face unreadable as he turns, leading her towards the sitting area near the windows.

The couch is dark and soft beneath her thighs when she settles on it, watching with a little frown as Nico settles in beside her.

Ellie’s not going to lie and say it was the direction she wanted to go in, she was thinking more vertically, then maybe…horizontally.

Shifting slightly to face him, Ellie doesn’t get a chance to ask what’s wrong before he looks at her, leaning forward on one elbow, rubbing a hand over his jaw and looking her over.

“You can ask whatever you want to know, Ellie. I’m not going to hide anything from you.”

Ellie drops her eyes, watching the glint of his watch peeking out from his sleeve.

 _Whatever I want to know,_ Ellie thinks, and there are a thousand things bubbling up inside her—

 

_Who is Irina, why did she have your mother’s key, why does she know your place so well, did you fuck her here, was it only once, why her, why me, why—_

_If you didn’t want to fuck me, would you even want to know me?_

 

But she isn’t really sure she wants the answer to any of those questions, not right now.

Ellie looks at him, finding him already looking at her, his eyes dark, the sun glinting yellow behind him, an autumn bright colour that’s all cold-tipped and bright.

 

_Why do you want me?_

 

She feels like her heart has been beating out of her chest since this morning, like she’s been clinging onto a cliff’s edge and every second longer is unbearable.

She doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to doubt or question or worry—

Ellie stands, Nico’s eyes follow, following her until she’s standing between coffee table and couch, watching something like hesitation, _worry,_ flicker across his face.

She’s tired of waiting, of doubting, of telling herself she _shouldn’t—_

Nico’s jaw ticks, his chest shifting as he breathes, watching her, waiting… and Ellie realises he thinks she’s going to leave.

There are words in her throat she wants to say, wants to give him an answer to _what do you want?_ Wants to tell him to say it again, to tell her again, all those things he said in the elevator.

But she doesn’t.

Ellie pushes her knee against his, the fabric sliding soft and dark against her skin; one of her legs slipping between the spread of his legs and the coffee table, watching Nico lean back more, back against the couch, his face nearly, nearly bare of emotions but for a flicker of his eyebrows and the little line between them.

There’s only a second of hesitation inside of her, a moment more of doubt, her teeth in her bottom lip—

But his eyes follow the move and Ellie steps forward and straddles his lap. Kneeling, one knee on each side of his, his skin warm even through his layers, his suit starched, but soft and dark…

She feels him go still, body held too stiff, a flicker of surprise on his face, in his body, in the way his hands hesitate, hovering between touching her and not.

Ellie sets her hands on his chest, sitting down the rest of the way, tucking her toes beneath his thighs; his eyes are locked on hers, lips slightly parted, his heart thudding beneath her palm.

It helps in a way, knowing that despite all the ways she can’t read him, that thudding, drum beat beneath the bones of his chest, doesn’t lie.

It matches up with hers as she leans forward, fingers curling into his shirt, letting her eyes close, letting their lips meet—

Ellie tries not to think about just how much it does meet up, that rhythmic thumping finding a familiar, echoing sound in her own chest.

Tries not to think about all the ways they match up, blood and bones and _dimples_.

She feels his hands on her thighs, feels his chest shift higher when Ellie scrapes her teeth over his lip, nipping at the soft of it before she angles her head and pours all the wants inside of her into him with nothing more than a breath and a soft little lick of her tongue against his bottom lip—

And then his hands are on her thighs and it feels like he’s a statue come back to life, reanimated on a breath from her mouth to his.

Like she’s Pygmalion and he’s all the things she’s been waiting for.

Nico’s hands slide up beneath her dress, spreading all wide and heavy over the outside of her thighs, gripping at her, meeting the want in her kiss and dealing it back with every too rough scrape of his teeth and tongue.

Ellie shifts forward, off the hard of his thighs and onto the hard of his lap. Hitching a noise he greedily swallows down as she presses down against the hard bulk of his cock trapped in his pants.

 

It’s even better than she imagined.

 

She can feel the throb of him beneath her, the hard, heavy line of it pressing against the ache of her cunt. She’s wet, has been since he kissed her in the elevator, since last night… since the first time she really let herself imagine it, him, _this_ —

Can’t hold in the sound she makes, can’t help the way her stomach clenches; rolls her hips over his lap, drags the lace-covered, slick heat of her sex over every last inch of him she can feel beneath her.

Too much of it, she thinks, grinding her hips in seeking little circles to see how much of him she can find, how much of him there is—

 

Wants to know how much is going to fit inside of her.

 

His hips shift, cock digging a little heavier against her. Ellie sucks in a breath between their lips, a shock of cold air next to the heat of their kiss before he steals it, swallows down the little inhale and kisses her harder, deeper, his hips twitching up as his hands slide higher, gripping at her thighs, the rolling path of her hips…

And then, all wide fingered and heavy palmed, Nico grips onto her ass and pulls her into him harder, heavier, hips meeting hers, cock grinding against her core—

He makes a noise, so low inside of his throat it’s nearly a growl; Ellie nearly wants to tease him, but the next shift of his hips meets her rolling grind and drags the slippery-wet lace of her underwear over her clit and her mouth breaks away from his, lips sliding over his cheek, stubble scraping as she hitches some whining, wanting noise.

She can feel the throb of him beneath her, can feel the hunger in the way his mouth drags over her neck, the way his fingers bruise in to her ass cheeks, slipping just beneath the lace of her underwear.

Her arms curl tighter around his neck as he sits a little straighter. Their chests touch, faces millimetres apart and Ellie rolls her hips again, heavier, dirtier, feeling the slick of her underwear, the easing glide of her arousal leaking though lace.

Nico’s hands spread wider, the length of his fingers so close to the wet heat between her legs, she wants to beg him to touch her, but—

Ellie grips onto his shirt, the flexing shift of his muscles as he drags her hips into his lap again, guiding the rhythm into something heavier, faster, his hips shifting up every time Ellie’s roll forward.

There’s a slick sound on the next grind, a little noise that makes Ellie’s cheeks flush, makes her chest hitch— Nico’s jaw ticks, watching her face, her lips, eyes as intent as the cock beneath her is.

She tries to hold in all the sounds building inside of her, but that slick, wet sound is there beneath every rough breath from their mouths, beneath every shared puff of hot air, every brush of kiss-swollen lips and Nico kisses her, hard, rough, _hungry._

“C’mon,” he growls into her mouth. “Let me hear you.”

Ellie tells herself she’s done this before, in dorm rooms, at parties, has felt the needy grip of a boy’s hands and the weight of a cock against the spread of her legs—

But her cheeks burn and she grinds down into him, one hand moving to grip and knot into the front of his shirt, to angle her body a little straighter, just a little more weight on his lap, to anchor herself as Nico all but manhandles the urging roll of her hips over his cock.

The rhythm builds and builds and burns—

Ellie tells herself she’s done this all before but there’s something so much more intense in the way their lips brush between breathless, rough kisses, in the way he watches her every time they break apart for a breath…

Ellie bites her lip, a hitch in her chest, her throat, her head dropping to his shoulder as a louder, aching, desperate sound breaks out of her.

“No,” he says, his voice rough and low and more a vibrating chord stringing through her than a voice. “Look at me.”

Ellie groans, fingers knotting tighter into his shirt, feeling the thud of his heart against her knuckles, the shifting of his shoulder blades beneath her other hand, shaking her head into his shoulder.

 _Look at me,_ he orders again, biting at her shoulder, her pulse, his voice torn. _Baby, look at me._

That slippery-wet sound grows, Ellie can feel how soaked she is, how it leaks out of her and all the heat is damp on his pants now, the press of his cock rubbing the lace of her underwear over her clit, spiking through her.

And then his fingers pull and gather the lace covering the curve of her bottom, twisting it around his fingers, the fabric drawing tighter, the lace soaked and dragging harder against her clit.

It sparks along her spine, her back arching, his fingers twisting the lace as he grips onto her cheek again, his mouth hot against hers, whenever she has enough air or thought to kiss him; swallowing, chasing, licking up every little noise, every little gasping whining, _oh God_ that slips out of her mouth.

Nico watches it all, his eyes never leaving her face, his heart thudding, his hands urging, dragging her closer and closer towards that cliff edge.

Her fingers scratch, twist and knot into his shirt, losing shame as every slick sound slips out between the rolling of her body, the drag of lace, of his pants and hard cock spilling her into a trembling, open-mouthed—

“Come on, baby, come for me,” he growls into her mouth, all rough and hungry for every noise spilling out of her, needy for it in a way Ellie is needy to— to—

She comes with a shuddering sort of spasm, voice breaking, body squirming, spine rolling sort of orgasm; an electric bolt of a feeling that spreads through her like a rush of heat through every inch of her body.

Thighs shaking against his, toes curled and digging into his thighs, mouth open, Nico’s hand on the back of her neck, the other still twisted in her underwear, urging the uncontrollable squirm of her body onto him in slower, but no less heavy rocking waves.

He presses his mouth to hers, a sloppy kiss that Ellie can’t return because of the pitch of her breathing and the squirming of her body. Can’t even be embarrassed about it as she rolls through the edges of her orgasm; all sparks and twitching muscles.

His hand eases off her underwear, caressing, palming her ass and pulling her over his cock enough to make her whine, to feel the cooling wet slick between her thighs and on his pants; impossible to miss, the drag of the material of his pants, the heat, still iron hot bulk of his cock—

Ellie pulls away from his mouth, blinking at him, trying to find her voice.

“You didn’t—” she swallows, her voice thin. “You’re still hard.”

Nico laughs, but it’s mostly air, his hands gripping, easing, palming her ass, higher up under her dress, her hips, her waist, back down again, slow, even strokes, like he’s just feeling her.

Thighs, ass, hips, stomach, fingers spreading wide to circle her waist; stomach, hips, ass, thighs.

“I’m not thirteen,” he says roughly, lashes dark and heavy, as he looks down between them; watching the climb of her dress every time his hands stroke up. “Need a little more than that to get off.”

“Show me,” Ellie says, tongue darting out to lick her lips as Nico looks back up at her, his hands tightening on her waist when she presses harder down onto the still throbbing weight of his cock, the slippery wet slide that’s all her, spilt between them and soaking into his pants.

His eyes narrow, just a little, sharp points of grey, one lit lighter by the angle of the sun spilling into the room.

“Show you?” he says, something stuck between cautious and surprised.

Ellie nods, bringing her hands up to his tie, her mouth to his, thankful now, for school uniforms, how easily she can work it off him even with unsteady fingers and half distracted by his mouth.

“Show me,” she says again, after she’s shifted back just enough that they can both see the darker spot on his pants, right over the bulge of his erection.

Ellie tries not to flush, but Nico looks down at it and when he looks back up at her he looks fucking _thrilled._

“I like that,” he hums, and then his hands are on her waist and he’s lifting her, a quick and world-tilting move up and forward and her back is on the coffee table, his hand braced above her head, his smile wolfish as he leans down over her, onto her, his hand pulling her hips to the edge, his body between her legs.

“You come so pretty, baby,” he whispers it, rough enough to make her shiver, right against her lips before he kisses her, hard, deep, a teeth clacking sort of kiss that drags a noise out of her.

Ellie scratches her nails into the back of his neck, his scalp, his hair inky dark and soft between her fingers.

She curls her legs around his waist, feels his hand spreading wide on the back of her thigh, groping onto her ass, his fingertips sliding through the slippery wet of her inner thighs.

He makes a noise, breaking his mouth away from hers, kissing down her jaw, her neck, nicking his teeth over her pulse, her clavicle, his hand yanking at the buttons on the front of her dress, pulling it down enough to suck a mark onto the little swell of her breast.

She feels his hand come off her ass, the streak of his wet fingertips along her leg, and then distracted by his fingers curling into the strap of her dress and bra, pulling them down his he drags, hot wet kisses over her chest.

The peak of her nipple, goose bumps spreading at the first puff of hot air from his mouth, his lashes heavy, looking at her in a way that makes her face flush.

And then his mouth closes around it, all hot wet heat that makes her spine tighten, liquify, roll—

A clink of metal, belt buckle, zipper, his body shifting, but his teeth scrape her nipple and she’s arching up towards his mouth, feeling the shift of his arm, aware, distantly as he sucks and licks and makes a noise in his throat at the sounds that break out of her, that he’s stroking his cock; can feel the heavy pace, the bunching muscles of his arm, the thud of his heart against her belly.

He tugs her bra and dress a little lower, sucking a mark near her nipple, laving over it and then pulling the peak of her nipple back into his mouth.

He comes with a scrape of his teeth, a torn breath, Ellie’s hands in his hair.

Nico breathes on her chest, his forehead hot on her skin, his heart beating hard and steady before he mumbles into her skin. “That’s embarrassing.”

“What?” Ellie asks, willing her own heart to slow, pulling her hands through his hair, blinking at the ceiling, her ass perched on the edge of the table until Nico sits back more, pulling her onto his folded knees. “I still want you to show me.”

“Yeah,” he huffs, voice rough, hair mussed beneath her fingers, cock tucked away when Ellie squirms in his lap a little, feeling the scrape of his zipper, the cotton of his underwear, the softer, no less heavy bulk of his cock beneath it. “Next time, when I know I won’t embarrass myself by coming in two minutes.”

Ellie laughs, a little breathless.

“Thought you weren’t a teenager?” she teases, rolling her hips, swears he’s harder than he was seconds ago, the feel of his cock through one layer less, just cotton and lace between them feels even better than before and it sparks inside of her, flickering all hot and needy through her body.

He looks down, his hand edging her dress up higher, watching her hips roll. “Tell you what, you show me and I’ll show you, hm?”

Ellie nods, biting her lips, watching him watch her body, his thumb so, _so close_ to her sex, resting in the curve of her inner thigh, sliding through all that shiny, slippery release on her skin. “Yes, please.”

Nico’s eyes flick to hers, something dark in them before he leans forward, steals a little more of her senses when he kisses her, slower, still tinged with a want for more, neither of them anywhere near sated.

He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against hers, searching her face like he’s looking for something, _checking_ , she thinks, to see if she’s okay.

And then his hand comes up, cupping her cheek, his thumb slipping over her bottom lip, dragging it down, sliding over it, his mouth following, catching it between his teeth, lashes dark as he watches it, knowing it’s plumped red from kissing and his teeth; can feel the heat in them, that plumped up warmth.

“Gonna take you upstairs,” he says, watching his thumb, her lips, intently enough Ellie wants to ask what he’s looking at. What he sees when he looks at her. “Make out with you… probably grope you a bit more.”

Ellie breathes out a laugh, caught off guard by his statement, the light way he says it.

He smiles quick and easy before pressing his mouth back to hers; the next kiss is softer, but not deep, the damp of his thumb slipping over her cheekbone. Just like he’s feeling his lips against hers.

“You alright with that?” he asks, between them, their lips brushing.

Ellie kisses him instead of answering, wrapping her arms around his neck, pushing her body into his, fingers curling into his shirt, chest pressed against his, their heartbeats beating rhythmically like mirror images.

 

She’s still trying not to think about how true that is.

 

Blood and bone and _dimples_.

 

His hands shift along her back, up and down, splayed wide, letting Ellie press into him before he lifts her, shifting to his feet like she isn’t anything at all to carry, hands wide under her bottom as he makes his way upstairs.

“Thank you for the dress,” Ellie says as he climbs the stairs. “And the underwear.”

Nico smiles, that crooked, one dimpled one. “It was purely for selfish reasons, sweetheart. Don’t thank me.”

She drops her head on his shoulder, not able to hold in her smile. “Didn’t want to drive me to campus to change?”

“No,” he snorts, his hand tightening on her bottom, thumb rubbing just under the lace of her underwear. “Easy access.”

 

Ellie laughs, an easy, bright sound.

 

 


	10. Part One, X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah I am so sorry this took so long, Real Life kicked my ass for two weeks and then I got sick and my writing time was...basically non-existent. I'm sorry for making you all wait so long :(
> 
> But, hopefully an eleven thousand word chapter will make up for the delay. Let me know what you think! I'd love to hear anything you have to say! Hope you enjoy it and sorry again for the wait!

 

* * *

 

Chapter X

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

          Ellie leans forward, touching the kissed-red of her lips in the mirror; a tender, swollen feeling in the heat of them beneath her fingers.

She looks _fucked_.

Like she’s gone three rounds in a fight made of soft sheets, heavy hands and a hot mouth.

Which is essentially true. Nico touches her like she’s been form-fitted to his hands; every greedy grope, cupping caress, slippery smooth kiss—

But, she’s trying to not think about all the ways in which she was _made_ because there are so many reasons why she fits him so well, why his mouth feels like it was made for her skin, why their bodies come together like continents realigning.

Because she was _made_.

Ellie was _made_ _by him—_

But, she’s not thinking about it.

Not while she can see him in the bedroom, pulling on a new shirt, his pants undone, belt clinking as he tucks his shirt in, shoulders broad and shifting, arms thick, heavy in a way she knows now (heavy around her waist, flexing as he lifts her, moves her, manhandles her body into an easy ecstasy—)

“I look like I’ve been fucked six ways from Sunday,” Ellie complains, trying to drag her fingers through her hair but she can’t quite keep her focus off of him. This feeling inside of her like she wants his attention, his focus, his eyes on her constantly. (His face in every blink, watching her come undone beneath him.)

_You come so pretty, baby._

Nico looks over at her, his gaze all lazy and relaxed, though she doesn’t know why, she’s the only one that came again; it has to still be sitting inside of him, that little, unsated feeling, because Ellie can feel her own still lingering, even after riding his thigh to the sound of him urging her on with a filthy mouth.

God, she thinks, he’s _dirty_.

She squirms a little, naked beneath her dress because she all but ruined the underwear he’d just given her, soaked through and currently in the same place her bra and underwear from the night before went, in the hamper tucked in his closet.

She’s kind of embarrassed he picked up after her, but, well, at least she knows where the hamper is now. (And her clothes.)

And it’s a little…odd, (a little fission, spark, _thrill, fear—_ ), she thinks, to consider how easily he makes room for her, how easily Ellie eats up what he offers, how much she wants more of it.

All of it.

Nico leans against the doorframe, fingers making easy work of his buttons; she’s sad to see every last inch of his skin disappear behind navy oxford shirt.

He smiles, a lazy, easy thing full of heat and sex and _promise_  that makes her bite her cheek as he looks her over and drawls out: “Not yet.”

Ellie laughs, short and breathless, stomach tensing at the idea of it, the way he says it, feeling her cheeks pinking under the weight of his words and gaze. She tears her eyes away, looking back at the mirror just to be able to get her words out in some semblance of an order that isn’t just begging for him to do it. To touch her. To fuck her. 

Anything. Everything. 

“I can’t—I can’t meet your mom like this.”

He must see her concern because he moves into the bathroom, stepping up behind her, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

It’s a little (thrilling, terrifying, _hot_ ) shocking to really, actually take in the differences in them, the daylight peeling away the shadows, leaving them exposed, lit up in marble and glass and sunlight.

Her head skims his chest and it should, it _should_ be funny, like every time he jokes about milk and her height…but, but looking at them—

All it does is leave her wanting for things she can’t explain.

“Why not?”  

 “I don’t want her to think I don’t… don’t _care_.”

Nico touches his fingers beneath her chin, tilting her head back against his chest, Ellie peering up at him. “You’re her first grandchild, you know. You could wear a paper bag and she’d be thrilled to meet you.”

And isn’t that fucking _weird._

She nods and his hand falls away from her chin; feeling him lean sideways, she watches him pull a hairbrush from the basket of things he’d given her that morning.

Ellie takes it, offering a small smile in thanks.

“What did you tell her?” she asks, as Nico lingers at her back, watching her quietly.

“About what?”

“About me,” Ellie says, working the brush through her hair, wincing at the tangle at the back from her head rubbing and rolling against the mattress.

“That you’re a delinquent who snuck into my club and—”

Ellie smacks her hand back into his arm, laughing.

“Not much, honestly.” He shrugs, a crinkle of humour in his eyes, watching Ellie section her hair to braid it and be done with it. “Told her that it’s true, that you came looking for me and we’ve been…getting to know each other for the last month and a bit.”

“Getting to know each other,” Ellie says, and isn’t even sure if she means it as a question or not, watching his eyes sink down her back as she pulls the braid over her shoulder to finish it.

He hums a little agreement, a little _mmhm_ in the roll of his voice. His eyes flick to hers in the mirror, his hands slipping along her thighs, warm-palmed under the edges of her dress.

Ellie breathes out, wanting to tell him she doesn’t have underwear on, but he has to know, he saw her peel them off from beneath her dress, his jaw tight, unashamed of the obvious bulge still marring all the fine lines of his pants  as he watched her.

“Getting to know each other,” he repeats, leaning down to press his lips to the side of her shoulder, her neck, her cheekbone. And then he pinches her bottom, his smile breaking out across his face as Ellie jolts, an embarrassingly high-pitched noise slipping out of her. “In a lot of ways.”

Ellie laughs, turning in his arms to face him, her chin sharp on his chest when she looks up at him, enjoying the way he smiles down at her, his arms warm and heavy around her waist. “Is it that easy?”

His hand comes up to tilt her head up to his again, his smile soft as he leans down and down to kiss her all slow and sweet and slicked just a little by his tongue and teeth, that edge of his hunger.

“As easy as I can make it, sweetheart,” he promises, so sure and confident that it eases something in her, a little loosening of her spine.

Nico’s eyes move to her neck, his lip twitching. “There wasn’t any cover-up in that basket, was there?”

Ellie frowns, confused. “No?”

His hand slides from her cheek, down to her pulse point, his finger tapping once. “I may have gotten a little over-eager.”

Ellie twists, turning to look back in the mirror, seeing the reddish, blotchy pink of a hickey on the side of her neck.

“Shit,” she curses as Nico laughs.

 

 

 

 

 

          They walk a block east, past a row of storefronts that Ellie wouldn’t even dare to window shop in; she ignores every one of them, ignores his eye roll at her stubbornness.

“It’s just underwear,” he sighs. “It’s not like it’s going to be that expensive.”

 _Ha_ , she thinks, shows what he knows. Underwear can be _expensive._

Besides, she knows there’s an H&M not far from here at all, she googled it.

“Tell me about your mother,” Ellie asks, changing the subject before he can shoulder her into somewhere more expensive on the promise of lace and silk and all those nice things she ruined so quickly.

She presses close into Nico’s side to avoid a passing group of women burdened with shopping bags.

He looks down at her, eyes narrowing like he knows exactly what she’s doing. “What do you want to know?”

Ellie shrugs, not really sure herself, _anything_ she thinks, _something._ “What’s her name? What’s she like? Is there anything she really hates that I shouldn’t do?”

Nico laughs as they circle a pair of slow-walking tourists, his hand slipping into hers. “You don’t need to _impress_ her, Ellie. When I say you’re her first grandchild, and she’s thrilled you even _exist,_ I wasn’t kidding. I think she resigned herself that I wasn’t ever going to give her any.”

Ellie isn’t really sure what to say to that. She falls silent, watching the storefronts, getting a little lost in the movement of the city around her while her thoughts roll by like the traffic rolling along the street.

His hand squeezes her, lifting their linked hands and folding his arm over her shoulder to pull her into his side, leaning down to press a quick dry kiss to her temple, their fingers still slotted together. “Sorry. Fucked that up, didn’t I?”

Ellie shakes her head, thinks it’s just weird, hard, _fucked up_ to straddle the line between him being in one role or another. To be a father, a son, a man with a family, and her being daughter, a grandchild, a _part_ of that family; and to them being…whatever it is they are now.

“I get it,” Ellie says, shrugging.

 “Illyana,” Nico says, his hand squeezing hers. “Ana, to most people. Or Ma, mother… rarely Mom, surprisingly. She’s… tough, but kind, opinionated but accepting. She’s a bit spoiled and will probably want to spoil you.” Nico smirks, nudging her a little. “But then, I want to do that too, so maybe it’s a family trait, hm?”

Ellie rolls her eyes, trying and failing to hold in a smile.

“She’s used to getting what she wants… and what she wants most, right now, is to meet you.”

“But why?” Ellie frowns, looking up at him. “Doesn’t she think it’s weird that I just…showed up?”

Nico glances down at her, eyes narrowing a little. “Not really, shit happens, El. She’s not exactly unaware of what can happen when teenagers have sex.”

Ellie throws him a look, confused, thinking he means her for a second before he snorts.

“My parents had me at eighteen. Can’t cast stones when you’re in the same fucking glass house, you know?”

Ellie blinks, taking that in, questions swelling up inside of her. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” he says, easily; like it really is as easy as he says it will be. _As easy as I can make it,_ _sweetheart._

“How old were you when… you know?”

“Seventeen, same age as you, basically.”

“So, you’re…” Ellie trails off, remembers reading an article about him once, when she first gave in to the urge to find him; some New York magazine about business and entertainment, a brief mention about the owner, Nicolas Cordova, 30, but she can’t remember when the article was written. “Thirty-four?”

“You didn’t know how old I was?” he smiles a little at that, something teasing. “What if I was forty?”

Ellie shrugs, feeling a little embarrassed about not caring, even if he was. “You don’t look that old— I mean, you look—” she fumbles and Nico grins, his arm tightening around her shoulders as his laughter rumbles out of his chest.

“You’re younger than I expected, is what I mean,” she rushes. “You know, I mean… Paul’s thirty-eight or thirty-nine? I think. And my mother has dated a few times before, and they’ve mostly all been older so I just…expected that?”

He nods and then sobers a little, his smile falling.

“About Paul—” Nico starts, but then he looks back and stops. “Shit, we walked past the Pharmacy.”

Ellie laughs, looking back as Nico does, seeing the red sign, nearly a block back.

Nico shakes his head as he turns them around, ignoring the look from a man walking near them as they nearly bump into each other.

Ellie wants to tease him about them missing the store, but she’s a little… pleased by it. That they were just walking and talking and despite everything—

Despite why they’re going to a pharmacy for cover-up, despite who they’re going to see, despite who they are—

Despite all of it, being together is just… easy.

 

It’s all just so _easy_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          She watches the hickey disappear beneath the ivory-tinted concealer stick.

Tilting her head, looking at it beneath the white lights above his bathroom mirror, Ellie inspects the rest of her neckline, finding a small mark a little higher up, barely noticeable, but it’s there and she covers it up anyway, just to be safe.

Curious, she unbuttons her dress, popping open the top two buttons and uncovering the pale pink of her lace bra. And above it, just above the lace edge, another heavy red mark from Nico’s mouth.

She shivers a little, the empty room colder in the absence of him at her back… in the memory of him and his hot mouth and hot hands and hard cock.

Ellie can’t help but look at herself, the late afternoon, fall-light all bright yellow and spilling into the bathroom, the pale white lights above her, chasing away all shadows and leaving her lit and illuminated, marked up by his hands and mouth—

Curling her fingers into the hem of her dress, Ellie edges it up, baring the curve of her hip where she finds the eagerness of his mouth, the blotchy-red mark of a hickey, the memory of his teeth and tongue on her skin—

(Pressed back against the counter, his fingers tucked around the hem of her jeans.)

She presses her fingers to it, pushing down the hem of the plain white underwear she’d just bought with the knowledge that they probably won’t last long either.

Shivering a little, her skin pebbling in the cold marble and bright lights of his bathroom, thinking about him and his hands and body and voice rolling, pressing, leaking into her:

_Come on, baby, come for me._

Another mark on the little slope leading to her other breast, just beneath her heart…

She isn’t quite sure what it says about her, that she _likes_ them, wants more of them. Wants him to strip her bare and mark her up everywhere, not just the areas he can reach while she’s still clothed.

Wants to see the indent of his teeth in her skin, wants his marks, his hands, his spit and cum and—

Ellie looks at herself and doesn’t bother covering any more of his _eagerness_ up, touches her fingers to the darker one on the little slope of her breast, briefly, her heart skipping a beat before she re-buttons her dress and heads off to find him, her body a live-wire ending with nothing to ground her.

 

Or maybe she does have something to ground her.

 _Someone_.

 

 

 

          She feels the chill in the main floor of the loft before she gets even halfway down the stairs.

 The October breeze sneaks into the room from the open glass door leading to the balcony, brushes her bare legs, slips up beneath her dress hem as she descends the stairs; the sounds of traffic and city bustle carried in behind it.

Nico’s leaning against the railing of the balcony, phone to his ear, speaking in a tone that’s rougher, sharper than the words he’s eased out in other languages before.

She steps up beside him, pulling on the soft grey sweater he’s leant her that’s far too big but looks nearly intentionally so when paired with her dress. (It’s soft and it smells like him and Ellie thinks she wants to steal it, just like his jacket.)

 Nico looks her over as he ends the call, stuffing the phone back into his pocket, his eyes narrowing, a crooked, nearly exasperated smile growing.

“You look stupid cute in my clothes,” he mutters, pulling Ellie into his side, trapping her between stone ledge and hard body. Ellie pushes her face into his chest, breathing him in beneath the city-smell and the cold, metal-tipped air.

The sun a soft orange glow as it brushes nearer and nearer the horizon line ahead of them, shadows growing longer and longer. She kind of wants to ask him if they can skip out, can lock the door and ignore the phone and just—

She thinks about asking him to mark her up a bit more, to bruise her, to give her something to carry with her.

She thinks about asking him to—

“There’s a car coming to pick us up.”

“Why?” she asks, voice muffled as she wraps her arms around his waist. Mind rolling images of his mouth on her skin, her thigh maybe, working his way towards—

Nico huffs, his hand cupping the back of her neck, the other braced on the ledge behind her. His thumb slips over her pulse, over her jaw, behind her ear, his fingertips pushing up into her hair, scraping her scalp lightly; Ellie shivers, pulling in a breath and holding onto it, willing her body to calm down, reminding herself of where they’re going, of who they’re going to see.

“My mother’s way of making sure I actually show up with you, probably.”

Ellie laughs a little, feeling Nico’s hand slide along her braid, rolling the length of it around his palm.

“You don’t have to worry,” he says quietly, while Ellie tries not to react to the idea of him gripping her hair. “She’s going to love you.”

Ellie nods, pushing her face into his chest, listening to the even thud of his heartbeat and trying to not get all worked up with fantasies of fucking, him behind her, above her, his hand twisted into her hair.

“What language were you speaking?” she mumbles.

“Russian,” he says, as he unrolls her braid from around his palm, only to roll it again. “My mother’s Russian by birth, though they’ve been here since I was born.”

“You speak a lot of languages, huh?”

“Just those two, and Spanish, passable in French and I know only enough Chinese to not completely embarrass myself.”

“That’s a lot,” Ellie says, as he unrolls her hair again, his hand brushing the back of her neck. “I can swear in French. _Merde_.”

Nico laughs. “ _Derʹmó_.”

“ _Puta_.”

“That’s Spanish,” he laughs and Ellie pinches his side because she _knows that._ “ _Shlyukha_.”

“Uh,” Ellie trails off, thinking. “I think that’s all I got.”

Nico laughs. “How about, _va te faire foutre.”_

Ellie looks up at him, an eyebrow raised, “French?”

He nods. “Fuck yourself. Or, _vaffanculo_.”

“ _Vaffanculo_ ,” she parrots, before laughing. “Italian?”

“How about… _Svoloch,_ ” he sneers, lips curving up. “Asshole.”

Ellie laughs, enjoying the way he changes as he says each, the momentary ease between them not filled with anything. “ _Swol_ — _swol_ -what?”

“ _Svoloch,_ ” he says again, slower, his grin sharp, laughing as she tries again. _Swol-itch._

“What about _dick_?” Ellie grins.

Nico laughs, his head tilting back.

 

 

 

 

 

          The car pulls up, all sleek and black, the driver climbing out to hold the door open. Ellie shoots a look at Nico, like _really?_

But he only shrugs, his smirk a little crooked, a little bit like, _that’s my mother for you,_ as he pushes her towards the car and slides in after her.

The door shuts, the interior dark with tinted windows; Ellie rubs her hands over the bottom of her dress as they start to move, her nerves ticking up the closer they get to wherever it is they’re going.

Nico takes her hand, stopping her nervous fiddling with her dress hem, his phone in the other, shifting through something on his screen and typing with one hand.

It isn’t a long ride, but each minute more makes her mind shift through possible outcomes like the shifting storefronts that slide past.

Mostly, she’s worried about embarrassing herself, embarrassing Nico, saying something she shouldn’t, forgetting that he’s only supposed to be her father and nothing more.

 _Shit_ , she thinks, does his mother expect Ellie to call him dad?

_Daddy._

Ellie looks down at their hands, the way his surround hers; thinks about calling him _Daddy_ in _public_.

She wonders what it says about her that she kind of _wants_ to.

If it’s fucked up that there are parts of her that want him to fill up all the different pieces of her she thought she didn’t ever really want _filled_. A part of her still caught on the idea of who he is to her, that he’s the man that made her, that he’s the man that should have kissed scrapped knees, taught her to ride a bike, took her to baseball games or whatever horribly _normal_ thing fathers do.

And _Jesus_ , she thinks, imagining him meeting her first boyfriend—

Remembers her grandmother answering the door, Ellie red-faced and trying to edge out the door while Gramma Evans had shaken the boy’s hand with a firm, wrinkled grip and a warning about curfews and hickeys and making out in the back of movie theatres.

And then Paul, once, asking her about Ethan after he had seen them together in the hallways of Trinity.

_Are you sure about him, he’s got a bit of a reputation, doesn’t he? You can talk to me if you need to, Ellie, you know that, right?_

She can’t imagine Nico doing any of that, can’t imagine him standing in that narrow house in New Rochelle and watching Ellie, thirteen and red-faced, pulling a boy out the door.

Can’t imagine him watching her stroll of campus with any boy at all, especially not Ethan.

She can’t imagine it, not now, not when—

She can see the size of Nico’s hand around hers and wants it splayed across the flat of her stomach and moving down. Wants it spread wide and gripping onto her ass cheek. Wants—

Wants to feel the long length of each of his fingers sliding up inside of her.

One and then two and then a _c’mon, baby, let me hear you._

Ellie shifts, squirming a little into her seat, trying to focus on the city sliding by as they head downtown. Nico’s thumb brushes along the back of her hand, slow and steady.

“What are you thinking about,” he asks, glancing at her, his head tilted a little; his phone resting in his other hand, the screen dark now.

“Nothing,” Ellie lies, chewing on her bottom lip, trying to not think about his lap, his fingers, his voice, his cock…

Trying not to think about calling him dad, meeting his family that’s really hers too—

Trying not to think about anything, really.

“Am I supposed to call her grandma?” Ellie blurts, her face heating as soon as the words leave her mouth.

Nico blinks at her, then laughs, his teeth white and shining in the low light. “No, sweetheart, not unless you want to. She’ll probably tell you to, but it’s your choice.”

Ellie nods, biting back the: _should I call you dad?_ That’s sitting in the middle of her mouth, waiting to fall out.

She stares out the window, holding it in, not realising she’s gripping at his hand until she risks a glance back at him and finds him already looking at her, his face unreadable, something dark in his eyes.

Ellie swallows, feels her heartbeat pick up, and blows out a breath to steady herself, half afraid he knows exactly what she’s thinking, and—

And half afraid he doesn’t.

 

 

 

 

 

          The restaurant is an old brick building in a neighbourhood that’s obviously been touched by money in the last few years; it doesn’t look like much from the outside, but Ellie looks up and takes Nico’s hand as she climbs out of the car.

They’re right on the Hudson, she realises, can smell the slightly different tang in the air, less cement and metal and exhaust and more salt and wind and mud.

His hand stays in hers the whole time, into the elevator, where he leans against the wall beside her, his thumb still stroking over her knuckles. Ellie tries to focus on that, as the elevator shifts into movement, climbing higher and higher as her nerves tick up with each floor.

“You guys like top floors, huh?” Ellie says, trying for light and easy and hoping she doesn’t sound as nervous as she feels. “Is it a height thing? Are you all giants?”

Nico laughs, turning, caging her in as he leans down into her space. “Am I a giant?”

“Yes,” Ellie says, trying to hold in her smile, her voice serious, eyes flicked up to his. “It’s kinda rude, actually.”

“Rude?” he grins, leaning closer, a crinkle of humour in the corner of his eye, his dimple a shadow in one cheek. “Maybe you’re just deficient, hm? Vertically challenged.”

Ellie scoffs, her lips twitching. “At least I don’t need to make everything custom to fit my freakish height.”

“No, you just need a stool to reach the sink.”

Ellie laughs, poking her fingers into his side, enjoying his flinch away from her fingers. “It’s true,” he laughs. “I’m still looking for one.”

“A stool? Really?” she laughs as he nods.  

“Give me a kiss before we go in,” he says, and it’s nearly a question and somehow not at all one; tinted with a demand that Ellie gives into easily. Pushing up onto her toes, her fingers curling into his shirt collar, his skin warm beneath her knuckles.

She breathes in and Nico’s lips brush hers; a quiet thing as the floors tick by, not soft or sweet or hungry and deep, just a kiss, a stolen moment’s promise for more.

“It’s more private too,” Nico says, his tongue darting out over his lips as if he’s chasing the last of her into his mouth; his hands smoothing out her dress and hair, cupping her cheeks to steal another peck.

“Hm?” Ellie hums, a little lost.

“The top floor,” he explains. “The higher you go the fewer neighbours you have.”

“Don’t like neighbours?”

“I like my privacy. And space.”

Ellie nods, can’t really argue with that, the view from his rooms are breath-taking and he really doesn’t have to worry about any neighbours seeing into his room easily as they’d be all the way across Central Park. She actually wonders if she could see into his building on the roof of Trinity with a good pair of binoculars.

“Plus,” he says slowly, his voice rolling lower as he steps away. “I can keep you naked in my bed and not worry about anyone else seeing you but me.”

The doors ping open.

Nico tugs her arm when Ellie is slow to follow, blinking in the wake of his comment.

“Tonight?” she asks, a little hopeful. A lot eager.

“Literally as soon as I can,” he murmurs.

Ellie thinks he might be trying to distract her, trying to ease he nerves, because he looks back at her with a smile that tilts into inappropriate and a wink that makes her bite her cheek to hold in her laugh.

 

          His hand, settling on the small of her back, does wonders for her nerves. A gentle reminder that he’s there and has her and isn’t going anywhere, even as her nerves start to tick up again the farther into the restaurant they go.

It’s surreal, she thinks. Just over a month ago and this man was nothing more than a picture and now she’s meeting family she didn’t even _think_ about.

Ellie takes in warm colours, the quiet, dark wood tables and soft, curved bench booths. The low-hanging lights that give everything a homey feeling while still remaining classy; a simple, easy elegance to the room that feels like someplace to relax in.

The sun is nearly sunk behind cityscape ahead of them, a strip of orange painting the water, and the whole room, a hazy fire-bright glow.

A dark, heavy wood bar takes up most of one wall, an area ahead with low tables and soft chairs, a lounge area in front of the windows. Nico leads her in, waving off the hostess who looks at him and then away, like she knows who he is and knows he doesn’t need help beyond a smile and a hello.

Ellie frowns a little at that, thinking of the place he took her on their not-date, the same sort of recognition from the staff there.

“Do you eat out a lot?” she asks, as waitress smiles at Nico as they pass by her.

“Not really, no,” he says as he leads her towards the windows. “Why?”

“They all…it seems like everyone knows you.”

He shrugs, looking down at her, that half-smile of his making his dimple deep.

“I told you, I’m a businessman, sweetheart, I know a lot of people, but—” he pauses as he pulls open the glass door leading to the balcony and lets Ellie go first. “This place belongs to my mother.”

Ellie takes it in; a wide space, deep-red brick lining the area, string lights that are only just starting to glow the darker the evening gets. The tables are wood and farm-table like, carrying that same, easy, welcoming feeling from the inside.

And then, near the far end, a woman stands, rising from a long table near a low burning, but huge brick fire place, like an oven almost, Ellie thinks, one of those stone pizza ones; it gives off a gold, smoky hue and a crisp autumn smell the closer they get, the air growing warmer, like a campfire in the cold night of a camping trip.

“Mои дорогие,” the woman says, holding out her hands for Ellie to take.

Ellie smiles nervously, unsure what she’s saying, but Nico whispers behind her, his voice just for her: _My darlings._

She’s tall, beautiful in a way Ellie can only describe as _refined_. Her light brown hair perfectly-parted and pressed all neat and smooth to her skull in a low bun at the nape of her neck; lips soft and touched by a red-tint showing off a white-toothed smile.

“Hello,” she smiles, her eyes on lingering on Ellie, before shifting Nico, her smile softening into something pleased.

When his mother looks back to Ellie, Nico’s hand stays wide in the base of her spine, like he’s half comforting her and half holding her still.

Like he is well aware she has a very real fondness for _fleeing_.

“Hi,” Ellie says quickly, and on instinct, placing her hands into the woman’s waiting ones. “I mean, hello, I’m Ellie, uh, Ellie Evans.”

The woman’s smile grows a little wider, a little more humoured, wrinkles creasing along the corners of her eyes, glancing up at Nico again, who says nothing, his hand hot in the arch of Ellie’s spine.

“Illyana Cordova,” she replies, her hands closing around Ellie’s. She pulls Ellie in towards her a little, a soft, flowery-spiced smell as she presses a soft kiss to each of Ellie’s cheeks. “As much as I’d like to tell you to call me Grandma or Nana, let's start with Ana, no?”

Ellie smiles, quick and nervous, catching Nico’s snort behind her. But then, Illyana’s hand comes up and she touches Ellie’s cheek softly, her eyes shifting over Ellie’s face.

“You look remarkably like—” she smiles softly, something a little sad behind her eyes. “No matter, it’s wonderful to meet you, darling.”

Ellie nods, forcing out a _you_ _too,_ as Nico motions towards the table.

“Can we sit,” he says, nudging Ellie towards the table. “Before you start interrogating her.”

Illyana looks up to her son, though, Ellie can’t help but notice, that she’s quite tall and the distance between them, is nothing more than a few inches. “I am not going to interrogate her, dear, calm down.”

Ellie slips into her chair, pushing her hands between her thighs so she can’t give in to the urge to fiddle with anything; the places already set, a little centrepiece with a candle flickering in the light breeze.

“Drink?” Illyana asks, as she pours herself a glass of something clear that Ellie somehow knows isn’t water.

Ellie thinks _yes, please,_ any alcohol would be good at this point—

“She’s seventeen, Ma,” Nico interrupts her thoughts and his arm folds over her shoulders, resting on the chair back, but mostly on her shoulders in a long heavy line that comforts her; grounds her maybe, keeps her tucked in the pocket of his body, safe, in some small way.

Illyana makes a noise in her throat, dismissive, passing Nico the bottle. “Like that means anything in our family. Wine then?” she asks, motioning to the other bottle on the table.

“We’re still working on her tolerance,” Nico jokes and looks over his shoulder, catching the eye of a waiter and ordering something Ellie doesn’t catch the name of.

“It’s okay,” Ellie says. “I’m actually not really a big fan of wine.”

“Well,” the older woman smiles. “I’ll let my son help you rectify that, I’m afraid you're coming into a rather…drink-loving family. I’ve recently acquired a vineyard California, though not quite the Italian hillside, it will do in a pinch.”

 _Acquired a vineyard,_ Ellie thinks, blinking at the statement, like a vineyard is an easily purchased thing, like it’s a sandwich, something easy to get. _Yeah, I picked you up a ham and cheese, didn’t know what you wanted._

“Who’d you pick to run it?” Nico ask as the clear liquid sloshes into his glass. “Ros?”

His mother nods, her white-tipped nails long and shining in the flickering tealight on the table. “Ros and Ingrid, both seemed the most knowledgeable and…eager to please.”

“How’s Sophie taking that choice?”

 “She understands, Ros hasn’t loved the city in a long time, we all know that.”

Nico makes a noise in his throat, his leg stretching out under the table, the other pressed up against hers, his body heat nearly too warm. That spiced, heady smell of him too close. She fights the urge to shift away, despite how much she likes it, just to put a little space between them, just for her own sanity’s sake.

“Who’s Sophie?” Ellie asks, looking for anything other than him and his body to focus on.

“My youngest,” Illyana says, with a small smile, then narrows her eyes at Nico. “Really, Nicolas, have you not told her anything about us? About your— our family?”

“I was trying not to overwhelm her.”

“Overwhelm her,” she scoffs. “Are we that terrifying?”

Ellie catches the brief flicker of disbelief on Nico’s face before it fades away into something nearly annoyed. “We aren’t exactly the fucking Brady Bunch.”

Ellie has absolutely no idea what he means by that, feeling like she’s missing a codex to decipher what it is they’re talking about.

Illyana fluffs her hand, a bracelet on her wrist jingling.

“Don’t be silly, all families are complicated. And language, please.”

“ _Complicated_ ,” he drawls. “Really, ma?”

“Regardless,” Illyana says, sitting a little straighter, her eyes focusing on Ellie. “I’m here to meet my granddaughter, so the rest can wait.”

Nico snorts, taking a too large gulp of his wine.

“So, Ellie Evans,” Illyana smiles. “Tell me about yourself.”

 

          It starts easy enough, Ellie fills in her past like a paint by numbers, each number a question, each colour a bit of history. Dinner comes and Ellie’s drink arrives, a mixed, sugary sweet frozen drink that he passes to her with a wink and a Since _Grandma says it’s okay,_ that makes the woman across from them shake her head and give him a pointedly unimpressed look.

Ellie tries to take her time drinking it, but it isn’t long before he’s getting her another, his smile small and entertained as she eases into his side, alcohol-loose and Nico-eager.

The restaurant inside gets busier, waiters and waitresses moving, mixing drinks and laughing with guests as food scents the air; but the balcony stays quiet, just the city sounds, the water below them and the cold breeze tempered by the warmth the charred and red-glowing wood gives off, deep in the stone oven. (And, maybe more so, the heavy weight of Nico’s arm, his soft, too-large sweater wrapped around her.)

Nico doesn’t say much, glancing at Ellie occasionally as if to check to see if she’s alright, his arm a steady weight around her shoulders.

And then, as the numbers stack up and the colours turn the shapes into an image of a girl sitting across from a grandmother she never met and a father she only just did…

The numbers narrow to details, the questions less broad strokes and more fine linings.

“And your mother?”

“Does it matter?” Nico interrupts before Ellie can open her mouth. “Her mother wants nothing to do with me, or us, for that matter.”

Ellie blinks, looking at him, her brows furrowed. “How do you know?”

He looks down at her, his eyes shadowed by the lights above, the sun set behind the cityscape across the Hudson. “Seventeen years, El, I say it’s a pretty good fucking indication, don’t you?”

Ellie has no idea what to say to that, if he’s annoyed by it, if he accepts it, if it bothers him, if he’s happy he never knew—

Because really, they wouldn’t be here, like this, _now—_ if he did.

 “Did she never tell you who your father was?” Illyana interrupts, spearing a piece of chicken, tearing Ellie’s focus away from Nico.

“No,” Ellie hesitates, stealing a sip of her drink and chewing lightly on the straw; thinking about how she’s going to explain all of it to a woman who’s supposed to be her grandmother. It was easier when it was just Nico and everything between them was already pushing a boundary, blurring lines and roles and _should-have-been’s._

Telling Nico that she found a photo, a name, a man she wanted to meet…was easier.

“Can I ask how you found your way to us then?”

“My mother met a guy, three— nearly four years ago,” she starts, trying to grab at truths and honesties without implying things she shouldn’t. “We were living, uh, not that far from here, actually, and she was working part time while trying to get some photography work…she met Paul, on one of her jobs, photographing some event or something, I can’t remember what it was. They started dating and then they decided to move in together. While we were moving, there was this…box in her closet? It was stuff she’d had for years, old photos and stuff.”

Ellie pulls in a breath, feeling like she’s rambling, barrelling down a track and can’t stop.

“Most were like, her friends, you know, high school years, even a few of her pregnant with me. But, I found a photo, near the bottom, and it was…” Ellie looks over at Nico, then to Illyana. “A guy, with a date and a name scrawled on the back and— and there was just something about it, the date, maybe, the face, I don’t know—”

“You didn’t ask her?” Illyana asks, looking at Ellie but darting a glance at her son as if to gauge his reaction.

But, Nico already knows this, mostly, Ellie’s told him.

Mostly.

“No, she’s kinda pushing the idea of Paul being, you know, my…father.”

Ellie feels Nico tense beside her, a subtle shift of the weight of him, like he’s bracing for something.

“I mean, stepfather, really…But anyway, there was this photo, in this box in her cupboard that I had never seen, you know? And it’s from seventeen years ago and…and there’s this app that lets you reverse conception dates?”

Nico huffs a laugh, a low little sound. “Creative.”

“Yeah, so, Mom was kind of all over the idea of Paul being a ‘ _that’_ guy and a good father and I just… I needed to know who _really_ was.”

“Have you ever mentioned that you wanted to?” Illyana asks, one brow arching.  

Ellie shakes her head, unsure if it’s approval in her grandmother’s eyes or just humour. “No. I went to my mom’s best friend. Made her promise not to say anything to Mom, asked her if she knew anything about who might be my father, and…”

Ellie trails off, poking at a carrot on her plate with the tines of her fork. “And she said she didn’t, not for sure, just that she thinks his name was Nick.”

The table goes a little quiet, the city noises get a little louder, the restaurant’s noises edging out onto the balcony, low soft music caught in the cold air.

“And the back of the photo said Nicolas, so…”

Ellie watches Nico’s hand on his wine glass, the sharp blunt of his nails, the long length of every finger. Remembers his fingers skimming along her skin, has to hold her breath as her stomach twists with want and wrong and a _need_ —

“So, I took the photo and I didn’t think I’d do anything at first, you know, I thought knowing would be enough, but…”

“It wasn’t,” Illyana smiles, like she understands, a small, sympathetic tilt of her lips. “Blood is iron, darling. We’re all just magnets to it.”

Ellie reaches for her glass, unsure what to say. Part of her brain cringing away from that statement, because is that all it is between them? Iron in their blood drawing them together with no regard for the impact.

For the fallout.

“Do you have it?” Illyana asks, her smile soft and a little eager. “The photo?”

Ellie bites her cheek, debating it, but she’s never been a good liar, and she knows the truth is already on her face, tinted pink and obvious, even beneath the strung and glowing fairy lights.

Feeling embarrassment spreading through her body, Ellie reaches for her phone, tucked into the pocket of the sweater. She holds it in her hand for a second, hesitating, before flipping it over, peeling the cover off to slip the photo out; can’t bring herself to look at Nico as she does it.

She knows exactly how this looks.

The photo is folded, the crease soft, well-worn beneath Ellie’s fingers; the man ( _boy_ , she thinks, because he was really just a _boy_ ) in the photo is dark-haired and grinning, teeth sharp and white despite it being taken in the dark of what Ellie assumes is a bar. It’s a fracture, a moment in time, seventeen years back, a still frame image of the man beside her.

He’s young, his grin all cocky-edged, the world behind him no more than blurred yellow bar-lights. She doesn’t know where they are, exactly, only the when and the why.

She doesn’t know what came first, only what came after.

All she can feel now is her own heart, the heat in her cheeks, the heavy weight of Nico’s arm against the back of her shoulders, still resting over the back of her chair. And all she can see is the image of her mother, sixteen and probably drunk, probably about to get fucked by—

Ellie reaches for her glass, sucking up a too large mouthful of her drink through the straw. Nico doesn’t say anything and she can’t bring herself to look at him.

Why is she still carrying the fucking thing? She berates herself for taking it out, for showing it, for looking at it often enough that it’s been worn soft by her fingers.

Cringes away from the fact she folded it, purposefully, in half.

The blue ink on the back is nearly faded, the _Nicolas_ hard to read, the _Cordova_ trialling off in a slanted scrawl. The date a messy thing, like all of Ellie’s baby photos, a trail of history in blue ink and her mother’s rounded print.

Nico still hasn’t said anything, but Illyana takes the photo as Ellie offers it, the white tip of her nails shining as she looks at it, her smile widening, a finger sliding over the glossy surface.

“Look at _that_ ,” she says, her eyes downcast, something so fond and pleased and _loving_ in her voice it makes Ellie’s heart trip, just a little. “I know this boy.”

Ellie can’t bring herself to look at Nico, her eyes lingering on the photo, feeling like she’s spilling a secret, like there’s a truth there, in how well-worn and soft-touched the photo is, like she’s saying more than she should, by keeping that photo folded, tucked, hidden in the back of her phone.

And then Illyana unfolds it and looks at Ellie’s mother, her eyes flicking up to Ellie and down to the picture.

“Her I don’t know,” she says and then looks at Nico. “Nicolas?”

 _I’m only Nicolas when I’m in trouble,_ he’d said.

Nico shrugs, not offering anything more. “What can I say. Having kids young seems to run in the family, doesn’t it?”

Her eyes narrow, her jaw ticking just like Nico’s does when he’s holding something in. 

“Her name’s Loren,” Ellie interrupts whatever stare down is going on between mother and son. “We did okay…with my grandma and all. Mom finished school and you know, worked while raising me and still…doing her photography thing, so, I mean… we did fine.”

“Oh, darling, no,” Illyana’s face twists with an apology. “I didn’t mean anything by that. I’m sure your mother is wonderful, she raised you after all. I’m just curious by nature. I like knowing everything—” she smiles. “It’s a terrible trait, really.”

“This was—you’re seventeen, no?” Illyana asks her.

Ellie nods. “Nearly eighteen.”

“So, your father was…”

“Same age,” Nico finishes. “Two thousand and one, March, right?”

Ellie wonders how he knows that, or if he just did some very quick mental math.

“ _Seventeen_ ,” Illyana says fondly, a smile spreading slowly across her mouth. “Don’t have nearly enough pictures of you then. Didn’t much care for being in photos, like most teenagers.”

Ellie wants to argue that, but she thinks snapchat and selfies might be little different to the family, posed photos Illyana might be thinking of.

“This was when you were still fighting, yes?” her eyes flick up to Nico, back to the photo. “You were filling out more and more every time I looked at you, I swear…” she laughs. “Such a lady killer then.”

“Ma,” Nico groans. “Come on.”

“What? It’s true,” she smiles and then looks at Ellie, her eyes mischievous. “Your father’s always been a looker, you know, Ellie, but he got his father’s height, shot up before he filled out—”

“ _Ma_.”

Illyana laughs, and Ellie isn’t really sure if she wants to laugh or go have a very long scream in the bathroom, because—

This is her grandmother, her _family_ , speaking to her like Ellie hasn’t spent most of her day with his body pressed against hers, learning the weight of him, feeling the heat of him, wanting him to _unmake_ her in all the ways he _made_ her.

Wants him to unravel her on his fingers, fill her up on his cock. Wants to climb him and ride him and have him fuck her like he fucking _means it._

Ellie forces a smile, pulling in a steadying breath, staring out over the water, the wavering, distant lights of the city across it. Her stomach twisting, her shame building, wants him to take her home and kiss her and promise her that it’s all _okay._

That they aren’t doing something _wrong._

Illyana looks back down at the photo, her smile soft again before she hands it back to Ellie. “Thank you for letting me see that.”

She tucks the photo back into the back of her phone, still can’t bring herself to look at the man beside her, too afraid all her fears and wants and needs and secrets are on her face, plain for him to read.

That the soft crease, made by her, separating him from her mother says more than Ellie’s ready to say out loud.

He was right, of course, in the elevator—

When he’d called her out for saying they weren’t anything, when he said: _if we aren’t anything, then why are you upset?_

Because it’s true. Ellie’s far more attached than she should be, far more than she wants to be, far more than she wants to admit.

Even to herself.

 

And still, even as dinner slides into dessert slides into a promise to come to a family dinner with all of the _Cordovas—_

Nico is nothing more Nicolas Cordova, Illyana Cordova’s son—

 

Ellie Evans’ father.

 

And _still_ , wanting him doesn’t flicker or fade at all.

She isn’t sure if she’s happy about that or not.

 

 

 

 

 

 

          “Ellie,” Nico says, as she’s stepping past him and into the loft, Ellie pauses, looking back at him, a step behind her with his phone out and held between them in offering.

Ellie takes it, a question on her tongue but all he does is let it go and shut the door behind them; the lock _snicking_ into place, the deadbolt clunking.

“8612,” he says as Ellie stares at the phone and then frowns at him, but he doesn’t offer anything more.

Confused, Ellie hits the home button with her thumb, watching the screen light up. The passcode appears and Ellie passes her thumb over eight, six, one and two and watches the phone unlock.

“Didn’t know if I was ever going to see you again,” he says, with nothing really in his voice at all. She opens her mouth, ready to ask: _What do you mean?_

But—

The words get stuck in her throat when her brain finally catches up to making sense of the picture he has on the background of his screen.

It’s her in his bed, nearly lost to the white of his duvet, her hair a mess of pale tangles over the pillows, the sharp of her shoulder where her shirt slipped down in the night, her cheeks pinked by alcohol and heat and sleep, half her face lost to the soft of his pillow.

Something like embarrassment rushes through her, body, limbs, fingers and toes, but it’s tinged with something else, something hot and sparking, something…heart-thumping that chases away the embarrassment and leaves something else in its place.

It’s from that first night when Ellie had been drunk and stumbling, though it’s obvious he had taken it sometime the next morning, there’s a pale glow over the bed, something like dawn in the pale-blue tinted light easing in from the windows.

“You—” she starts, cuts off to swallow her heartbeat that feels like it’s pressing against her jugular. She looks up at him, his phone tight in her hand. Nico steps closer, his hand closing around her arm and then he’s turning her, backing her into the door and leaning down.

His kiss is hard and deep and full up with a hunger she feels growling to life in her own stomach; all wolf’s teeth and sinew. His hands tight on her hips, nearly bruising, pinning her to the door, her head tilted up while he leans down.

It’s another mark she thinks she won’t mind carrying.

When they break apart, for air, for sanity, for a moment of gasping, too hot breath— it’s just his forehead against hers, his eyes on hers, the same shade reflected back at her.

 “It’s kinda creepy,” Ellie breathes out before inhaling the little huff he exhales, a breathless sound like it’s a bit laughter caught on surprise.

“I know,” Nico says, and kisses her again, words sneaking out as he wraps his arms tighter around her and lifts her, her feet skimming the floor, still pressing his mouth to hers. “I know it was,” he groans. “I couldn’t help it.”

Ellie knots her hands around the collar at the back of his shirt, pulling her body up and into his, asking to be lifted higher, to press all her edges into his…and Nico does, a hand shifting beneath her bottom, the other wrapping her thigh around his waist, lifting her until she’s the same height as him and all their differences seem like nothing.

And all their similarities…

“Tell me what you want, baby,” Nico breathes it out against her mouth, Ellie’s hand pushing up into his hair, over his scalp, scraping her nails against the short dark edges on the nape of his neck, feeling the flex of his shoulders beneath her fingers.

Ellie’s never been good at asking for things, spent too many years watching her mother walk out the door for school each morning, for work each night, seeing her grandmother flicking on the camcorder at school recitals, seeing her school work spread out next to her mother’s, one brightly coloured, the other all words and textbooks.

There’s never been much want in Ellie’s life, feels like she spilt from one event to another, each day a rolling thing broken by moments of reality. Growing up alongside a mother who was really still growing herself. Growing up in a house working to making ends meet.

There’s never been much want in her life, because it was _have_ or _have not,_ it was _good_ and _enough._

It was _life,_ just life.

She’s never been bothered by the don’ts, because there were enough haves to balances all the pieces out. There were enough kisses and hugs and late nights in front of a television watching herself in school recitals on flickering playback while her mother held her and said, _look at you, Peanut, cutest one up there._

There’s never been much thought to _wanting_ until her mother said _father_ and made the reality of a life spent defined by mother-and-daughter a thing _lacking._

Until Ellie found a photo, a name, a man in the shifting lights of a club.

 

“You,” she says, because it’s true.

 

 

 

          In the bedroom, Nico lays her back against the mattress, kisses her until she’s breathless, his cock hard between her legs as Ellie presses her hips against his, trying to feel more, trying to find friction, to spark that flame inside of her into a fire.

He braces above her, reaching out to flick the bedside lamp on before leaning back and kneeling between her thighs. Ellie frowns up at him as he pulls his phone from his pocket, watching him flick his thumb over the screen, a little soft glow illuminating his face and turning his eyes an electric shade of silver-blue.

It’s only when his thumb shifts again, when those electric-tinted eyes land on her, that she realises he’s taking a photo.

Ellie squawks, covering her face with her hands, twisting sideways beneath him, but the width of his body between her legs blocks her. “What are you _doing_?”

“Being creepy,” he says, humoured and easy, leaning forward a little to push at her shoulder and lay her flat again. “Come on, it’s only fair.”

“What’s fa—” she laughs when his fingers skim her side, body jolting to get away. “Stop it!”

“You’ve got one of my face,” he says, trying to pull her hands away from her face one-handed and laughing.

“It’s like two decades old!” Ellie jolts, squeaking when he tickles her again, dropping her hands to shove him away even as she squirms, laughter bursting out of her.

He laughs and then his fingers stop moving, watching Ellie catch her breath, his head tilted a little, phone still in his other hand, considering her.

“Alright,” he nods and then drops down beside her on the bed. He holds the phone up, turning it to selfie mode, and Ellie blinks up at the sight of them pressed together on the screen.

It’s the first time she’s really thought about how they look together to others. The first time she’s seen them, seen what everyone else sees… all the differences and all the similarities. All the ways they don’t match, and the smaller ways they do.

She understands why Irina doubted her, they don’t look much alike, not really.

 The first nearly silent click of a photo, catches the moment she focuses on the sight, her mouth slightly open, lips pinked from their kiss.

He shifts again, pushing his arm beneath her back, sinking a little lower to line them up better, her head on his shoulder, his fingers skimming her side again and Ellie’s laughter breaks out; as her eyes close, she catches the sharp-white edges of his smile and knows he’s taking a photo of it.

“There it is,” he murmurs, all low and pleased.

He snaps a few more, a few more where Ellie sees the echo of their dimples on the screen, can see the similarities in the crinkles of their eyes, the curve of their smiles… but he’s dark-haired and thick, all shoulders and muscles and _mass._ Takes up space like it’s nothing, like the world’s his, like he’s been born to own it.

Tucked into her side, Ellie thinks she looks…young, too small, so different from him in so many ways.

She thinks, briefly, that she looks like a kid. Like _his_ _kid—_

And she rolls into him, turning to push her face into his shoulder, his neck, rolling her body heavier into his until his arm circles her, the other cupping her when she curves her leg over his waist, tucking it up high near his ribs.

He doesn’t say anything, but his heartbeat is a steady thing beneath her ear, slow and even like the current. Ellie feels his hand leave her thigh, lifting his phone again, the click of another photo, and a long pause where she sneaks a look and sees him flicking through the photos he just took.

She groans, whiny and long, sitting up and sliding over him, plucking the phone from his hand and leaning forward to drop it onto the bedside table and flicking the lamp off.

In the glow of the moon and the city, Ellie looks down at him.

“You’re so embarrassing,” she whines, even though it’s her that’s embarrassed not him, she can tell, his hands warm on her thighs, something entertained on his face, the crooked tilt of his mouth. “And creepy.”

“Why am I embarrassing?” he asks, his fingers edging beneath her dress.

“Because,” Ellie states, trying to think of what she wants to say. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” he says, with a little frown. “I told you. Anything.”

She drags her bottom lip into her mouth, watching Nico’s eyes follow the move, scrapes the sharp of her teeth over her lip as she tries to gather her thoughts.

“How do you do it?”

His head tilts a little, his fingers slip, stretch over the hem of her jeans; fingertips seeking her skin. “Do what?”

“How do you—” she stumbles, because she doesn’t know how he does it, how he goes from touching her to talking about family, from kissing her to introducing her to his mother. “Tonight. With your mother. You seem so calm about…all of this?”

He watches her for a moment, a little line between his brows before he pulls in a breath and lets it out all slow and steady.

“Because I made a choice, Ellie,” Nico says, like he understands what she’s saying even though Ellie isn’t even sure she understands what she’s saying. “And I think, that when you make a choice, you do what you have to do to make it possible. You accept what comes with it. What happens because of it. You _keep_ making that choice.”

 “Even if it’s…” she trails off, fiddling with a button on his shirt, thinking to ask: _even if what you want is wrong?_

 But she doesn’t really want to hear him say that what they’re doing is wrong, doesn’t want to face that truth, not yet. Not when she’s already spent a chunk of the day in a role she never thought she’d be in:

Her father’s daughter.

“What did you choose?” Ellie asks, has to ask, has to hear it again, she thinks, again and again and again because she doesn’t quite _believe it,_ not even with his words in the elevator bouncing around her skull, not even with the reality of kissing him and touching him and—

She just wants to _hear it._

“You.”

He says it so easily, so factually, like it’s all summed up in a little word made up of three letters; _you._

She can feel her heart thudding, can feel his hands on her thighs, his eyes on her, can feel the hardness of his stomach, the slight shift of his breathing.

Ellie slides her hands along the buttons of his shirt, sets her fingers to his collar, works a button loose, and then another; the heat of his skin beneath her knuckles, each small button showing more skin, more hard angles lit by the moon and the ever-constant glow of the city.

When she reaches his stomach, she shifts back, over the hardness of his belt and onto the waiting bulge of his cock; she doesn’t know what to do with the thrill it puts inside of her, the simple, bright-sparking fucking trembling _joy_ that he’s already hard.

She sinks down a little more, until she can feel his cock right where she wants it, pressing hard right up against the ache of her cunt; Nico’s hands tense and ease against her thighs and even in the shadow of the light spilling over them, his eyes look _hungry_.

When her fingers hit his belt, she tugs and Nico sits up, his arm around her waist, holding her to him. Her legs spread around him, the shift of positions rubs his cock harder into her, her breath catches, his hands grip onto her hips and it’s so easy to imagine him fucking her like this, manhandling her, holding her against his body while he works his cock up inside of her.

Nico presses his face into her neck, his mouth hot, his breath heavy, his hands iron tight on her hips, holding her still.

Ellie pulls at his shirt, feeling it slip out of his belt, working it down and over his shoulders, over his arms as he moves each one back to let her push it off of him the rest of the way.

She hears it land somewhere over the edge of the bed, but Nico looks at her in the dark; one hand sliding, spread wide as if to feel as much of her skin as he can, up beneath her dress, tracing her spine, notch by notch, vertebrae by vertebrae.

It’s quick, a tug, a stretch of her body, arms lifting, and Nico pulls her dress over her head and tosses it somewhere, careless, too focused on watching her to care.

And then it’s just skin and moonlight and hands.

His, sliding up along her back, down her sides. Hers, touching the flexing tense of his arms, the heavy weight of his shoulders, the broad expanse of his chest.

Nico looks down between them, Ellie doesn’t need to look to feel the pebbles on her skin, the peak of her nipples through the thin of her bra, the shiver that spreads the longer he looks at her.

The marks, hickeys, trails of his mouth, left behind from the morning.

She wants to ask what that look on his face is, what he sees when he looks at her… because she’s never really given much thought to her body except as a machine to work inside. A too small girl, whose curves are more for making her body move than for lingering.

But he does. Linger, that is.

She can feel his fingers hesitating on the clasp of her bra, but he does nothing. Just _looks_.

It’s too quiet, too hot, too cold in the pocket of space between their upper bodies, too filled up with should and shouldn’t and right and wrong and too much and not nearly, not nearly enough.

She leans forward, wrapping her arms over his shoulders, and even with her bra on, feeling all that skin against skin is enough to make her eyes close, is enough to steal her breath, enough to spark and surge inside of her. Enough to make her hips ache to roll and move and find that little sweet release of ecstasy. 

But she doesn’t.

She turns her head into his neck, presses her lips to his skin, smelling Nico and aftershave and soap and all those lingering smells she likes to find on her clothes after she’s left him.

His mouth touches her shoulder, her neck, his hand stroking through her hair, unwinding the length of her braid to pull his fingers through it.

His heartbeat lulling and just a shade off of steady, but his arms surround her, his body a wide thing she likes being in the shadow of.

In the quiet, Ellie breathes him in, lets her eyes fall closed, lets his heartbeat fill up her senses. Lets him hold her, his hand stroking through her hair, no real space between them at all.

“I think we should just sleep tonight,” he says, his voice low and gritty in the dark.

His cock is hard, she can feel it; she’s more that a little wet, more than a little achy, but—

Nico turns his head into her neck, his voice rolling into her, his hand tight on her hip like he’s holding her still as much as he’s holding himself still. “Okay?”

Against his neck, Ellie nods.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy dialogue in this chapter, right?
> 
> Not the most thrilling chapter, I know, but it needed to happen. Next one will be more...eventful, I think.
> 
> (Also, I am not Russian/Italian/Spanish so I rely on looking up the languages I use, and while I always spend a fair amount of time trying to make sure it's right, I'm still relying on multiple translation websites, so... yeah, if you see something really wrong, hit me up and I'll fix it.) I'm also here: https://sweetandsure.tumblr.com/


	11. Part One, XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd apologise for that long wait on the last chapter with a new one as a thank you for waiting and for the support through the chapters so far.
> 
> Just to clarify some questions on the last chapter. Nico is Ellie's father, like, 100% lol. I would have tagged it pseudo-incest if he wasn't, but he is, sorry if that disappoints anyone looking for an easier solution to their relationship. But, that being said, I don't do unhappy endings, so while there might be some rough/unhappy chapters as we go along, the ending will be a good one.

 

* * *

Chapter XI

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

                It’s one of those mornings where Ellie feels like she’s still in bed, moving through the motions while still hazy with the weight of sleep and blankets.

Though this time she feels hazy with the weight of a body pressed up against hers. (His mouth on the back of her neck, hand on her thigh, her hip, edging along her underwear, fingers skimming her stomach to pull her onto her back into his body, easing her into wakefulness.)

She knows she shouldn’t be so distracted, Andie’s been chatting to her for two hours, but all Ellie can focus on is how much she wants to climb back into the bed she left that morning.

As she’s pouring another drink, her thoughts whirring like the sound of the frother going beside her, Ellie feels a nudge in her side and looks over at Andie, working beside her.

“Your friend is here,” she says, nodding her head a little towards a table.

Ellie looks up, sees Max sitting, already with a coffee steaming beside him, his laptop open.

“How long’s he been here?” she asks and then winces. “I didn’t serve him and ignore him, did I?”

Andie shakes her head. “No, Tara got him, you were with that woman who ordered those six double espressos.”

Ellie finishes the order, popping the lid on and sliding it across the counter with a smile at the man waiting before she turns back to Andie, wiping her hands on her apron. “Mind if I…” she motions to table.

“Nah, go ahead, it’s nice to get regulars other than students for a change.”

“True,” Ellie smiles, looking at the full tables, students with their heads down, laptops open, sweater-clad and studying.

Caleb’s wiping down the counter near her as she makes herself a tea and warms up a muffin, turning her face when she looks at him, showing him each cheek. “Clean?”

“You’re good,” he laughs. “You okay with that guy?”

Ellie looks over to Max and back to Caleb. “Yeah, why?”

“Just checking,” he says, wringing out the cloth. “Men, you know.”

Ellie knows, it isn’t the first time Caleb has had to step in when someone got overly friendly with one of the staff, though mostly, she thinks, it’s Tara that usually gets the…overly friendly ones.

“He’s just lonely, I think,” she says, her voice lower, watching the man on his laptop, sitting in a small table on the far side of the café. “Said he just moved here, so...”

Caleb shrugs. “Like I said, just checking. Scream if you need me.”

Ellie gives him a little salute, _Yes, sir,_ and ignoring his eye roll as she rounds the counter.

Max doesn’t look up until Ellie’s sliding into the chair across from him, his smile sudden and wide, creasing the laugh lines along the sides of his eyes.

“Didn’t want to say hi?” she teases, tearing open her muffin.

“Looked busy,” he offers in way of an apology. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

Ellie shrugs, “Not so bad, students mostly just get drinks, you know? Caffeine. Lots of caffeine.”

“I know, I don’t think that machine has stopped since I got here,” he says, pointing to the frother. “I don’t know how you stand the noise.”

“Tune it out,” Ellie smiles. “After a while it’s just white noise.”

“And your drink of choice?” he asks, looking over his laptop to her mug.

“Just tea,” she smiles. “So, how’s the apartment hunt going?”

“Not bad, I’ve narrowed it down some. Come see.” Max nudges his laptop, turning it a little as Ellie shifts her chair around the little circular table, edging closer to him.

“This one is in Brooklyn, which is a little further than I wanted to be, but it’s quite nice,” he starts, finger moving over the screen; his nails short and blunt, fingers long and thick. He has working hands, Ellie thinks, even though he dresses more like a suit and tie kind of guy.  

Max flips through a few listings, each tab drawing nearer the core of the city, Ellie offering her opinion on each, what the area is like (as much as she knows, anyway) while chatting and watching him with side-glances; the laugh lines around his eyes, the thick of his shoulders beneath the dark green pullover he has on, the inching grey along his temples, lighting the edges of his stubble, making his hair look a little lighter than it is.

He’s an attractive man, and Ellie can’t help but wonder why he isn’t out trying to meet more people, women, or men, maybe, she really doesn’t know what he’s into. But then again, she really only sees him a few times a week, in the middle of the day, for all she knows he could spend his evenings with all sorts of people. New York is never short on entertainment or people.

(She can’t help but think of Nico, because really, prior to the last two days, isn’t this exactly what she thought about for him?)

“Wow,” Ellie says, taking in the next apartment. “That one has a great view.”

“It is one of the things I like most about this city,” Max says, scrolling through the images of the apartment and the view over the East River. “It may not smell fantastic, but it is not short on offering views to make up for it.”

“Depending on how high you go,” Ellie laughs. “It’s a bit different when you’re only on the like, first floor or a dorm building.”

“Ah,” he smiles. “But your campus is quite a nice area, what with the university so close, it feels like it’s own little community inside of a city.”

Ellie nods. “It does, actually. It’s a bit older too, Trinity’s main buildings and all, so I think it helps it feel… quieter, calmer, maybe.”

Max nods, reaching for his coffee. “And this shop is nice, as well. Much better than those Starbucks. Very overrated.”

Ellie laughs as she pops the last bite of her muffin into her mouth. “I think so too.”

“Do you spend a lot of time on the other side of the city, then?”

Ellie shakes her head, chewing as she thinks. “Not really, my d— I have a friend who lives there. But I usually stick to the area around campus, unless I’m with my family.”

“Big family?” he asks, leaning back against the seat, his coffee steaming lightly in his hand.

“No,” Ellie says automatically, before thinking, that yes, she actually does, she just doesn’t know them yet, not really. She has a whole other family she hasn’t even _met._ “My grandmother, my mom and her fiancé…husband, basically husband.”

“Ah,” he smirks. “Not a fan?”

Ellie huffs a laugh, picking at her muffin wrapper on the table, fiddling as she talks, thinking about Paul and her mother and the wedding. About the impending name change, about how she doesn’t think she’s going to do it, about how she’s going to tell her mother that she’d rather stay the only Evans than become a Hethridge.

“He’s nice,” she says slowly, and can’t help but smile as Max does, they both can hear the _but_ in her words.

“But,” he says slowly, leading her on.

“But.” Ellie laughs, blowing over her tea. “It’s complicated.”

 

 

 

                Ellie knows, logically, she needs to go back to campus and can’t see him, so when a familiar dark SUV is waiting for her at the end of her shift, idling at the curb, she doesn’t hesitate to get in.

And all but climbs over the seat to kiss him, despite him laughing into it and her pressing more kisses to his teeth than his lips until he cups her cheeks and slows her down.

“Hello,” he smiles, eyes shifting over her face. “Long day?”

She nods, even though it really wasn’t, six hours and a break spent with Max, it went faster than she expected it to, faster than she thought it would, when she all but dragged her ass through the door, wanting nothing more than to climb right back into this car and this man’s arms.

“Wasn’t expecting you.”

He shrugs. “I told myself to let you head back to campus on your own since you know, you told me you could walk by yourself, but…” he pulls her face closer, head tilting to kiss her, sweet and smooth and warm.

“But,” he says after they break apart. “It’s cold out.”

Ellie laughs. “You gave me your sweater.”

“It’s dark.”

“There are street lights.”

“You must be tired.”

“Not really.”

“I wanted to see you.”

Ellie grins at that one, stealing another kiss, her smile making it hard to do properly until he pulls her over the seat and shifts his back. Ellie straddles him, her smile fading as the kiss shifts from sweet to starving, his hands slipping over her hips, over her leggings, onto her waist.

“You smell like coffee and sugar,” he mumbles against her mouth. “Like I could eat you.”

She makes a noise in her throat, pressing down into his lap, shifting her hips to feel him getting harder, his kiss deeper, his hands sliding towards her ass.

She thinks she likes feeling his cock hardening even more than finding it hard; like the way it fills out beneath her, harder, digging into her more with every shift of her body.

There’s a honk, loud enough and close enough Ellie jolts in his arms. Nico looks out the window and then in the rear-view mirror, his grin comes out, sharp and white and not at all nice as he lifts a finger to the mirror.

“Yeah, fuck you too,” he mutters when another honk comes.

Ellie slips off his lap, knowing she’s pouting and not caring.

“I really wasn’t done,” he smirks, snaking his hand beneath her as she moves, pinching her bottom. “Fuck that guy.”

“Oh,” she blinks, twisting in the seat to look at the car idling behind them. “Figured we should move.”

“Should and want are very different things,” he says, but motions to her belt and pulls his own on. “Your school does have a parking lot, right?”

 

               

 

 

 

                “The Prodigal Denier returns,” Mya sing-songs as Ellie flops down on her bed, her body lit up and needy, a promise for more on a final kiss before he sent her on her way, two minutes before curfew set in.

“Well, Sugar Baby, lets hear it.”

Ellie throws a pillow at Mya, but she doesn’t aim and it goes wide, Mya laughs, rolling back on her desk chair, already dressed down for the night in Hello Kitty pyjama shorts.

“M’not a Sugar Baby,” she mumbles into her pillow, rolling over to face the other girl. “I came back this morning to change for work, you weren’t here.”

“Was at the library,” she shrugs, tossing her notebook at Ellie. “I figured one of us should be the responsible student and get us ready for Monday.”

“You’re the bestest friend a girl could have,” Ellie smiles, trying to ignore the ache and focus on Mya. “Seriously.”

“I know,” she sighs dramatically, leaning further back in her chair like it’s such a tiring hardship. “Now tell me about Daddy Dearest. How was his bathtub?”

“Amazing,” Ellie laughs, trying not to react to the nickname at all. “Honestly. I took photos, come see.”

“Did you take photos of his dick too, I’d like to see those,” Mya grins as she stands, crawling onto the bed to lay beside Ellie.

Ellie flushes, letting Mya take her phone while she pushes her face into her pillow, thinking about his dick, even if she hasn’t seen it yet, she’s _felt it and—_

“Oh my _God_ ,” Mya coos. “It shouldn’t be legal to look like that. You two are adorable.”

Ellie blinks, rolling over to see what the other girl sees; the photos he took of them in bed, just the ones of them together, Ellie doesn’t even know when he did that.

Sometime that morning, she guesses, while he was _being good_ and Ellie was showering alone.

“Ellie, like, in the nicest possible way, you need to get on that and like wow him with your pussy, seal it down, you know? Put a ring on it.”

Ellie laughs, grabbing her phone back and shoving at Mya’s shoulder.

“I mean even if his dick is small, he’d make a great trophy husband.”

“It's not!” Ellie laughs, and nearly cries for laughing so hard as she sees the shock on Mya’s face.

“You saw it? Wait— Did you— You little—” she smacks her on the shoulder as Ellie laughs. “Tell me!”

“I didn’t see it,” Ellie chokes out eventually, her face red from laughing. “Not exactly. But like…we made out and…you know, crossed some bases. A few times.”

Her mouth opens, shuts, opens again.

“You dry-humped the walking GQ ad?” Mya blinks. “Did you get off?” She blinks again. “Wait, did he?”

Ellie laughs. “Yeah, it was…pretty hot actually, he’s pretty, uhm, solid, so…” she rolls onto her back as Mya sits up, staring her down with an open mouth and wide eyes.

“ _He’s pretty, uhm, solid_ ,” Mya quotes. “Like you rode his dick, through your clothes, like teenagers?”

“Yes?” Ellie says, her face twisting.

“Wow, that’s... actually kinda hot?”

 Ellie throws her arm over her eyes. “I _know_ , and like. I’ve done this all before, but it’s _different_. He’s… I don’t know. He’s got condoms in his bathroom… and like, they aren’t small ones.”

Mya laughs, cackles, actually. “Well, I mean, that’s a good sign, at least you know it’s not like, an illusion. A dick-illusion.”

Ellie snorts. “No, I’ve seen his, like—”

“Boner? Hard on? Package?” Mya suggests helpfully and Ellie whacks her.

“I think he’s still hesitant because of—” _the fact that I’m his fucking daughter._ “My age. So…”

“Well, shit,” she says after a long moment. “I think I respect him. Does he have any brothers?”

Ellie laughs, ignoring Mya’s _no, seriously. Does he?_

 

* * *

* * *

 

                So, she does know, logically, she can't see him all the time. That she has school and he works and she can't just...

Can't just be with him all the time. No matter how much she wants to. No matter how long she wears his sweater, or how long she stands under the shower and pretends it's not her hands and fingers and other girl's voices echoing off tile.

 

But, when there's a text waiting for her when she gets back to her room on Tuesday morning, her notification light blinking steadily, Ellie feels relief flooding through her.

 

 

 

 

> N: Wednesday? Be a delinquent for me and I’ll bring you back as early as you need in the morning.

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

 

 

               Except, by the time midday Wednesday rolls around, Ellie’s dropping her lunch tray onto the table, her appetite gone. She clicks into her messages, thumbing a text, ignoring her friends around the table.

 

 

 

> E: I have to take a rain check tonight.

Ellie spears a piece of lettuce, listening as her peers at the table make their own plans for their paired project, Mya shooting her sympathetic looks beside her.

“I could just do—”

“I’m not going to let you do all the work, Mya,” Ellie grumbles for the third time. “I’ll just reschedule.”

“You’ve been looking forward to seeing—”

Ellie bites her cheek, stabbing at her lettuce but not bringing any of it to her mouth.

When her phone vibrates she drops the pretence of eating.

 

 

 

> N: If you want to, it’s not a problem.
> 
> E: It’s school.

Ellie pauses. Debates it only for a second before typing:

> E: I don’t want to. There’s a paired project, I can’t leave Mya to do it alone.
> 
> E: It’s not fair.

She isn’t sure if she means it’s not fair for Mya, or _It’s not fair I can’t see you._

Which seems too clingy, so she’s going to pretend it’s the first one.

The text comes quicker the second time, Mya peering over her shoulder.

 

 

 

> N: Bring her. I’ll pick up something for dinner. You can do your work here and we’ll have dinner.

“Oh my God, yes. Say yes, El!” Mya grabs for her phone and Ellie tilts away, batting at her grabbing hands.

 

 

 

> E: Really? It wouldn’t be…like fun?

And by fun she means… horizontal, naked, orgasm-filled. Something like that, anything like that.

 

 

 

> N: Really. I’ll have you back by curfew even.

“Ugh, no,” Mya whines. “Stupid curfew.”

Ellie feels her smile return, after two periods of it being gone since she first heard the words group, project and Shakespeare from Paul, Professor Hethridge’s, mouth.

 

 

 

> E: Okay. if you’re sure?
> 
> N: I am. See you soon, sweetheart.
> 
>  

 

 

 

                There’s no time to change after classes, running late from last period and heading out the front door this time, since they know they’ll, unfortunately, be back by curfew, there’s no point in sneaking out across the field.

She passes by Paul in the hallway, chatting to another teacher, he gives her a smile and reminds her about her section of text and Ellie holds up the book, telling him their heading to the library to work on it right away and to _say hi to mom for me._

Mya smiles serenely, nodding along to Ellie’s lie, before slipping her hand into Ellie’s and tugging her along, “By Mister Hethridge, see you tomorrow!”

As soon as they’re out the door, on the pretence of the library, they circle around the other way, heading towards the field when Mya stops, stepping in front of Ellie and grabbing the waist of her skirt and rolling the hem; a wicked grin on her face.

“What are you _doing_ ,” Ellie laughs, trying to step away as Mya tugs and pulls at her skirt. “Stop it.”

“First impressions, remember,” she says, hands working their way around Ellie’s waist, the skirt going an inch shorter, brushing Ellie’s thighs instead of her knees.

“He’s seen me in it before, you know. A few times.”

Mya winks, stepping back and undoing her own, slightly less, but still folded skirt. “I’m your wingma— _wingwoman_ , El, trust me.”

“I don’t need a wingman or wingwoman, it’s not—”

“Please, for the love of God, do not say _it’s not like that,_ because we both know you're so fucking full of it,” Mya rolls her eyes, her smile lingering on her mouth. “You want to ride his—”

Ellie throws her hand over the other girl’s mouth, laughing. “Mya!”

She bats her hand away, grinning. “Oh, don’t be a prude, I know you. And because I know you, I know you actually _like_ _him_ like him, because I know how you would normally be _._ ”

“How would I normally be?” Ellie asks, her eyebrows rising.

“He kissed like a hoover,” Mya quotes and Ellie busts out laughing, remembering the last drunken encounter she had, months ago now, at the end of the last school year, after Ethan. “I can’t even imagine him eating me out.”

Ellie’s laughing too hard to stop her as Mya continues on. “His dick felt small when we were dancing.”

“Okay, that one was _so mean_ ,” Ellie winces through her laughter. “I was super drunk. And like you’re any better.”

“Oh, I know I’m not,” Mya laughs. “Luke keeps asking me out after that lacrosse party that you bailed on, and I don’t know how to tell him that making out with him was like making out with an octopus. All like—” she paws at Ellie’s arms, her stomach, her hands barely brushing with limp wrists. “—Bleh.”

Ellie laughs, grabbing at Mya’s blazer to tug her into moving again. “Come on, let’s get going. He’s probably waiting.”

 

 

 

                The sight of Nico, leaning against his car, is not new to her. It’s the same sight that greets her every time he picks her up. She _should_ be used to it.

But, it does more to her than she thinks it _should,_ because Ellie’s always made fun of girls who got all worked up around guys, but she sees him and she can’t help but fucking _grin._ Teeth sinking into her lip, her stomach clenching, watching his face even though his eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Mya whines. “That’s just _mean_.”

“I know. Welcome to my life.”

“If I didn’t love you, El, I would seriously hate you,” Mya pouts. “That’s not fair. I want one.”

“Evening,” Nico smiles, teeth white against the dark, nearly black, navy of his suit; tie gone, the start of his chest visible from the unbuttoned collar as he straightens off the car, offering a hand to Mya. “Nice to see you again, Mya.”

Mya looks confused for a second before she laughs. “You too, Mister Cordova, thanks for making sure I got home alright, awful nice of you to not tattle on us about our…night out.”

He looks back at Ellie, as he opens the rear door, letting Mya slip into the backseat. “We’ve all been there. I’m sure I did much worse than you two when I was your age.”

Ellie almost laughs, because he really kind of _did,_ she wants to say, _like knocking up my mother._

But that’s a bit ridiculous. And while acceptance is the first step, Ellie thinks she likes mixing denial into her acceptance like a mixed drink. She accepts that’s she’s fucked up, accepts that she wants the man in front of her…but accepting who he is to her…that’s something different.

She wants the alcohol, just not all the burn.

Ellie climbs in after Nico opens her door, and then he’s slipping into the seat across from her, his head turned towards her and she thinks, _hopes, sort of kind of prays,_ that the moment of stillness in his face and hands before he turns the car on, is him looking at hem of her skirt, inches up from where it should be.

Nico looks away, his hand tightening on the wheel, jaw flexing as Ellie sneaks a glance at his profile.

“So, Mister Cordova—”

“Nico,” he says, clearing his throat, forcing a smile as he glances into the rear-view mirror.

“ _Nico_ ,” Mya parrots. “Do you have a twin or brother, hell, a father even. I’ll go older, I don’t mind.”

Ellie laughs, dropping her head into her hands, face scrunching. “Mya!”

But, Nico’s watching her, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, his grin wide, laughing at them both. “I actually do have a brother but I’m not so sure I’d be a responsible pare—”

Ellie coughs, choking on her air.

“Sorry, sorry,” she coughs, forcing her words out. “What’s wrong with your brother?”

“Nothing really,” he says slowly, brows furrowed behind his sunglasses, turning back to face the road. “Bit of a— well, he gets around, you know?”

“Well, if he looks like you...”

Nico laughs. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Oh, it _is_.”

 

 

 

 

                Dinner eases the tension in her spine, letting that building heat inside of her seep out a little at the edges. Conversation easing from school to homework to the coffee shop to Mya’s parents and back around to school and the wedding, fast approaching.

Clean up is quick and easy, tossing the containers of a prepared chicken that Nico had picked up from whole foods, the salad devoured and plates scrapped and loaded into the dishwasher. Nico brushes his hand against her lower back as he leaves, heading towards his office to let the girls work on their project in the quiet of his main room.

Mya turns to her, in the pocket of silence in the wake of Nico’s absence, her mouth shaping _oh my God,_ before they both laugh and settle into homework.

 

 

                Ellie fidgets, glancing at the time on her phone every few minutes, the hours ticking by, Mya typing as Ellie flips through pages and lines and—

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ellie, just go,” Mya kicks her foot into Ellie’s leg, looking pointedly towards the hall that Ellie keeps glancing down. “We’ve got more done here than we would have in dorms. Go away you’re driving me crazy.”

Ellie rubs her calf, mouth opening to deny it, but she really _can’t,_ so she slips out of the seat and sends Mya a strained, apologetic and thankful smile before heading down the hallway.

His voice is barely audible through the door, a low sound that makes Ellie sink her teeth into her lip, scrapping over the bottom, debating going in.

But, she’s itchy for a touch, eager for a kiss, wants anything more than that humming, tension-filled distance between their bodies in the car, at the dinner table, even now, across the width of his loft.

She blows out a breath and pushes in, creaking the door open to lean inside; she sees him pacing slowly, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his cellphone to his ear, talking to someone in clipped short, sentences.

He sees her almost immediately, stopping in front of the glass wall, the room lit by one desk lamp and the glow of the city lights behind him.

Ellie pauses at the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, one hand curling into the hem of her skirt as Nico turns to face her fully, half in shadow now, the light too dull to make his face out completely.

He closes the distance between them slowly, slow enough Ellie feels her heartbeat rise and she really wishes he didn’t affect her the way he does; not this easily, not with nothing more than a look or a touch or a thread-thin space between them.

She really wants to know if it’s at all the same way for him.

His hand lands on her arm, warm through the white of her school shirt, his eyes heavy but carrying nothing she can understand in the low light of the office.

He pulls her, just a little, urging her inside, her back against the wall as his hand falls away and moves to the door. It shuts quietly, a dull click that rings in her ears. She doesn’t know why, exactly, they’ve been alone before, but Mya is on the other side of that door and she has no idea that the man she’s been pushing Ellie towards, so eager to push her towards, is Ellie’s father.

It makes it all feel…so much more intense. Stomach-churning.

“I’ve already met with them,” Nico says to the person on the phone, the other voice too quiet to hear. “They agreed to the percentage.”

Ellie’s head is tilted back, keeping their eyes locked, her teeth in her cheek, watching the shift of his eyes as they move over her face, his hand coming up to cup the side of her neck; his fingers long and warm and slightly rough, brushing over her pulse, up into the baby-fine hairs at the nape of her neck, up towards her ponytail, hand slipping over the length, pulling it over her shoulder, the length slipping through his hand like a pale waterfall.

“On the twentieth,” he continues on, his voice lower and rougher, the press of his body heat, millimetres from hers. Not near enough to sink into but near enough to want to.

“I’ll be the one handling it anyway, so it’s a non-issue.”

Ellie has no idea what he’s talking about, doesn’t think she really cares, watching him wrap the length of her ponytail around his hand, working the length around his palm, higher toward where it’s knotted, on the top of her head. When he reaches the base of it, he tightens his hold, tilting her head a little higher, her head pressing back into the wall, as he tilts her neck, just a little.

“No, the call won’t be made until we’re there,” he says quietly, leaning down towards her and Ellie can see why he complained about her height earlier, in her socked feet, the distance he has to lean down to press his lips to her neck twists inside of her almost as much as the feel of his breath on her skin does, the soft damp of his lips beneath her jaw bone, another touch of his mouth to her jaw.

Ellie swallows, digging her nails into the wall behind her, her eyes closing.

“Mmhm,” Nico mumbles, his breath hot on her skin, the voice in the phone more audible now, male, tinny and distant through the speaker. “That is what I do best.”

His hand tightens again, keeping her head tilted as he presses his lips to her jaw, along the bone, up onto her cheek, a slow trail, breath warm, alcohol and mint tinted.

Ellie’s breath falls heavier out of her mouth, lips parting, chest shifting as her pulse climbs, as his lips ghost her cheek, his hand tight on her ponytail, holding her head still. Closer and closer to her mouth, his voice a rolling thing, all subdural, inching along her spine and over her brain.

“They don’t have the resources. Or the balls.”

It’s nearly painful to not be able to turn her head, to not be able to close the distance, to ask, to say _please—_

To turn, just that last little inch, that breath of a heartbeat between their mouths. To feel the soft of his lips on hers, swallow that alcohol minted heat inside his mouth and let him lick lemon and want from the inside of hers.

A noise breaks out of her, just a little sound, when Ellie tries to turn her head, his lips so close to hers and she can’ t—

His hand tightens again and she _whimpers._

“At six. I’ll call you tomorrow.” The phone clicks off, the voice on the other end cutting out as Nico tucks the phone into his pocket and—

And then he sinks down to his knees.

Face to face it’s impossible to ignore the dark of his eyes, despite the colour of their eyes being so similar, Ellie can’t help but think, set in his face, beneath the dark of his hair and the angles of his jaw, his eyes are…intense.

There’s a twitch of humour in the corner of his mouth, and she doesn’t need to guess why, they’re the same height now, with him on his knees; Ellie no more than an inch above him.

But his humour fades just as suddenly as it twitched to life, his eyes sinking down between them, the small, nearly closed distance between his chest and hers.

In the quiet, just her breathing and his, Nico’s hands touch her sock-covered calves, just below her knees, just below the hem of her knee highs, the heat of his palms muted because of the thick cotton knit socks.

Ellie’s mouth parts, watching him sink lower, sitting back on his haunches; his eyelids shifting as his eyes roam, lashes all heavy and dark, hair all thick and dark and she can’t help but sink her fingers into it, a tremble in the tips of her fingers, in the heat of her insides, rolling and tight and jumbled.

Nico’s thumb strokes onto her skin, just onto her thigh, just above her knee; it sends a spark through her, that little touch, that little, barely there brush of calloused thumb.

“I feel like I should have been arrested just for letting you in my fucking car today,” he mutters, his voice rolling, low enough she swears it’s lower than any thumping bass beat in any club she’s ever been in. Rolling into her, sinking inside of her and, like a breath over coals, turning glowing heat into burning flame.

“Like I was breaking laws just fucking looking at you,” he hushes, voice dark and hard and somehow, soothing, hot water filling up her insides.

She can’t find her voice, can’t think of anything but the inching rise of his hands, the slowest crawl, like frost along a windowpane. The stroke of his thumbs along the inside of her thighs, how much of her his hands cover, his fingertips nearly touching his thumbs.

Up her thighs, beneath the hem of her skirt, watching the fabric gather over his wrists, his watch disappearing as his fingertips find the bottom curve of her ass cheeks.

Her hand twitches in his hair, sunk in all the soft, dark thickness. His eyes flick up to hers and Ellie licks her lips, pulling in a deeper breath, feeling her heart thudding, her chest shifting.

Nico’s hands stroke back down her legs, heavier than the gentle stroke upwards and Ellie whines, her head thumping back against the wall; frustration making her legs twitch, her body seeking, needing, aching for something, anything—

She feels the shift of her shirt, looking back down, his fingers working a button loose, his eyes on his own hands as he moves on to another. Her heartbeat ticks up, watching each little white button come loose, the pale skin of her stomach when he spreads her shirt, just enough to lean forward, just enough to press a kiss to the tensing, shifting of her belly, her breathing uneven no matter how she tries to breathe steadily.

His lips are warm and dry, his breath hot, another button and he pulls the edges of her shirt out from beneath the rolled hem of her skirt. There’s a little humour in the crook of his lips when he leans forward again, Ellie can see it, her hands in his hair, her cheeks burning; he knows she rolled her skirt intentionally.

She wants to deny it, to pretend it wasn’t for him… to tell him it was _just for him—_

Ellie doesn’t really know what’s wrong with her lately, so full up of contradictions she makes herself dizzy, like Alice, falling down the rabbit hole.

He kisses the hitching tense of her stomach again, hotter this time, like he chased the taste of her skin on his lips before going back in for seconds.

 _Drink me_ , she thinks. _Eat me._

All teeth and tongue and that rolling rough of his voice, all those fantasies she has that pale in the reality of him… wants to watch his mouth open, each flashing glint of his teeth as he devours her, each swipe of red tongue, each teasing, dark glance of his eyes as he swallows her up—

Her hands tighten, nails scraping his scalp and Nico curves his hands around her waist, thumbs stroking up the middle, fingers stroking up her spine—

“I hate how fucking much I like how small you are,” he groans, one palm spreading wide across her stomach, her pulse thudding beneath his palm. She knows he has to feel it, that no matter how quiet she is, he has to feel what he does to her. “The things I want to do to you.”

She wants to tell him she likes it too, that this morning in the shower she thought about the width of him, of how much space he’d take up inside of her… that she’d bit her lip and rubbed her clit to the thought of just his _fingers._

That she wants to know if three would stretch her out enough for his cock.

He leans forward again, a wetter, hotter kiss to her stomach; her muscles twitches beneath the scrape of his teeth as his hand works the tail of her shirt out of her skirt, tugs until there’s only the top two buttons of her shirt still done up, her stomach pale next to the dark of his hair, the dark of his stubble, the shade of his skin, next to hers.

She feels his hands sinking back down, over her skirt covered bottom, his hands wide as they travel down, cupping the back of her thighs.

She feels, more then sees, the moment he sees the hickey, still a shadow-coloured bruise on her hip, his hands tighten, clench a little into her thighs and his body tenses. One hand comes off her thigh, two fingers tucking into the band of her skirt, hooking and pulling, just a little, to bare the curve of her hip, marked by his mouth, to his eyes.

Ellie tightens her fingers, catches his hair in her grip and brings his mouth closer, his eyes flicking up to hers as he hunches, teeth sharp, tongue hot and then sucks—

Pulls her skin and nerves and body tight, her thighs tensing, twitching, shoulders pressed back against the wall as her hips twitch closer to his mouth, her cunt aching—

Her head thunks back against the wall, fingers twisting in his hair, a caught, hitch of a noise breaking out of her chest.

“Please—” she starts, not even sure what she’s asking for, thinks it’s closer to _anything_ than something specific; wanting to press her legs together to find just a little bit of friction, but Nico edges closer, his knees between her feet, his hands gripping onto her thighs, her ass, yanking her down into his lap to kiss her, hard, rough, desperate.

His fingers dig in, pull her forward, the drag of his cock against her cunt makes her mouth open, makes her gasp into his mouth, makes him groan, pulls a sound of him that makes her squirm, all needy and wanting, into his lap.

His hands grip harder on the next urging pull, a shift of his hips like he can’t stop himself, his hands groping onto her ass, hard enough she swears he’s nearly ripping her underwear. And then, on the next grip, tug, roll of his hips, Ellie feels his fingers slip, a little lower then she thinks he meant too, fingertips curving, digging in along the curve of her ass and between her thighs, close enough to her cunt that she feels the slip of his fingertips, all slippery from her arousal.

His mouth breaks away, a curse that’s more gravel then words, his hand gripping onto her ass cheek, the other, fingertips wet and slick and brushing along the seat of her underwear—

“Fuck,” he curses, bites along her jaw to her neck. “Fuck. You’re fucking wet.”

She is, she knows. She’s been achy since that morning, slick since she saw him, wet since she sat in his car and watched the flex of his forearm, the side glances he stole at her as he drove—

(Been fucking slippery with want since she sat beside him at dinner and his lap was _there_ and waiting for _her_ and he was all smiles and proper manners like she wasn’t imagining straddling his lap and showing him just how achy and wanting she was.)

Nico kisses her again and Ellie doesn’t know if it’s because he’s so good at it or because his fucking mouth is the best thing she’s ever tasted or if it’s just because it’s _him—_

But he steals her breath and her mind so easily that she barely notices his hand coming off her ass until his hand is on hers, pulling it out of the grip she has on his hair, whines as she rolls her hips without the urging grip on her ass, wanting that rough hold, that desperation, wants him just as fucked up in this as she is.

She’s so caught up in just feeling the long, thick length of his cock trapped in his pants that she doesn’t pay attention to his hand around hers until he’s laying it flat on her thigh and his kiss turns biting, a scrape of his teeth along her bottom lip.

In the low light of the room, his eyes are dark, his breath hot on her mouth, the flat of her hand being pressed down beneath his, inching higher, her fingertips underneath her skirt hem, fingertips brushing the iron heat of his cock, feeling his hand twitch over hers as his thumb tucks beneath her palm, pushing her hand higher, closer to—

Ellie licks her lips, her heart thudding, searching his face because she thinks he’s telling her to…

Her fingers slip along the innermost curve of her thigh, the hot, damp skin, the lace trim of her underwear soaked and digging into her from rubbing against his lap.

Nico presses his lips to hers, softer than before, more of a slide, kiss-swollen lips to kiss-swollen lips. It’s a request, an urging, a _please_ , somehow, without any words at all.

His hand spreads along the top of her thigh, all wide and hot and large enough to distract her as his thumb presses, close enough that he brushes the edge of her underwear, slicking her arousal as he strokes over her skin.

She watches his jaw tick, tense, his mouth pressing harder against hers, the kiss hungry, devouring as Ellie slips her fingers beneath her underwear.

Her body tenses and liquifies all at once, heat spilling through her, anticipation and arousal winding her tighter, thighs twitching at the first press of her fingertips against her clit, slicking through all the heat and wetness to press against it, to send that spiral of a flickering flame through her body like a jolt of electricity.

He makes a noise in his chest when Ellie’s hips roll, mindless, as her fingers stroke over her clit, circling the little nub, her voice breaking loose in a high-pitched little inhaling whimper.

His other hand grips her ass cheek; Ellie can feel his cock at the tips of her fingers when she slips them through the wet of her cunt, wanting to curl her fingers inside of herself, to lean back and let him peel off her underwear. To let him watch, to work herself up and push them both over the edge.

Her mouth opens, but Nico steals her words, his teeth sharp, his tongue hot, his kiss hard.

“Show me.”

Ellie rubs two fingers over the swollen heat of her clit and lets him swallow every little noise that falls out of her mouth. Every whimper, every whine, every nearly, nearly pleading noise that tilts too close to _please, please—_

At some point, one of her knees comes up, her shin pressing against the hard of his shoulder, her body folded between him and the wall, toes curling in her socks; Nico watches her through it all, breathes in her moans and catches every twitching roll of her body. His hand running up along her thigh, his mouth pressing a kiss against her knee as Ellie’s shoulders dig into the wall, her spine arching, her hips rolling against his lap. The tips of her fingers bumping against his zipper, his belt, his cock as she rubs and squirms and comes undone against him.

“Good girl, that’s it,” he hushes it into her mouth, his hand clenched on her thigh, his thumb so fucking close to her cunt she wants to scream. “You’re so close aren’t you, baby?”

Her eyes clench, thighs twitching to close, kept open and wide from his body, his voice enough to spill her closer, closer—

“Look at me, Ellie, come on. I want to see you come.”

Chest climbing, hitching higher, body winding tighter and tighter, his eyes moving between her face and their laps, the glistening inside of her thighs, her skirt bunched, her fingers moving beneath her underwear.

And then she’s cresting that peak, her body unravelling into white heat and he’s pulling her up and into his lap, his arms around her, letting her hips roll and her body squirm against his chest, over his lap, her fingers still trapped between them, feeling the slicker, wetter little rush of her orgasm. Her body twitching, her breath near sobbing, gripping onto the tense of his arm as he holds her nearly too tight, his voice all grit and groan as Ellie tucks her face into his neck, her pleases and hitching little noises buried in his skin.

He’s saying something, she’s sure of it, but then he’s tugging her head up and kissing her; swallowing every desperate inhale and every unstable breath.

Then his belt is rubbing against the soaked cotton of her underwear, right against her clit and it sparks through her, that hard bit of metal digging into her cunt and she thinks _what—_

But he’s leaning her back just enough to pull her hand out from between them, her fingers wet and shiny, glistening in the shifting lights outside the windows.

He looks at her and then at her fingers and Ellie blinks—

Nico lowers his head, licks her fingers into his mouth, a hot, wet glide; sucks the sticky-slick of her release, a noise in his chest like it kills him a little, the taste of her. The heat of his tongue against the pruned, arousal-slick tips of her fingers makes her whole body clench.

Ellie whimpers, the _Daddy_ on her tongue so close to her teeth it feels bloody.

When he’s sucked off every last trace, his hand grips the back of her neck, fingertips knotting into her hair and he kisses her like a man drowning; Ellie tastes herself on his tongue, a sweetness in his mouth that wasn’t there before.

“You taste so fucking sweet, baby,” he groans into her mouth. “I want to—” he breaks off, kissing her harder. “I’m gonna to eat you out for fucking days, Ellie, I swear.”

Ellie whines, hips twitching, his belt digging into her, his cock hard beneath her but she can’t make her voice work, too afraid of something else slipping out of her mouth. Resting her head on his shoulder, breathing him in as he strokes his hands over her thighs and up her back.

When her heart slows, Nico sets his hands on her hips and helps her stand; her legs coltish, his hand steadying, letting Ellie find her balance. Nico follows her up, but when she expects him to step back and maybe kiss her and urge her out and back to Mya, he crouches down, rebuttoning her shirt, pressing a kiss to her cheek, her jaw, her neck.

“Your friend must be wondering where you are.”

Ellie shrugs, because Mya won’t care, Mya’s probably keeping a timer running and waiting for all the dirty details.

Maybe she made a chart. Making out, check. Dry humping, check. Mutual masturbation, half-check?

“She’s fine,” she whispers, sucking in a breath as Nico’s hands slip up her thighs, fingers curling around the top of her underwear, pulling it down her legs before she can really register what he’s doing.

“You didn’t tell her who I am,” Nico says, not looking up at her, but watching as he peels her underwear down her legs, out from beneath her skirt, letting Ellie use his shoulder for balance as she steps out of them, can feel the wet slide of cotton and lace along her inner thighs, can feel the colder air brush the still hot and wet of her sex, bare beneath her skirt.

“No,” Ellie whispers. “I didn’t.”

And then he stands, tucking her underwear into his pocket like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t make her cheeks burn, like it doesn’t make her want to watch him wrap his hand around his cock and—

She imagines him coming on them, a splatter of white over the pink of her underwear. Imagines him holding them in his fist, working his cock with the wet fabric around his palm. Imagines him—

Nico cups her cheeks, his hands brushing over her head, her hair, working her ponytail loose, kissing her cheeks, her mouth, quick, easy things to pull her mind back into the moment.

“You should use the bathroom before you go back out there,” he says, like he isn’t stealing her underwear. Like his cock isn’t pressing into her stomach, like he isn’t going to be jerking off as soon as she’s out of the room. She looks up at him, her chin sharp on her chest. “You look—”

He cuts off, looking at Ellie’s pout, her mouth opening to object, to ask to watch—

His thumb brushes her bottom lip, his eyes dark. “Go on. I need a minute.”

 

 

 

                Back in the main room, after Ellie has slunk into the bathroom and pressed cold water over her lips to ease the kiss-red heat in them, and straightened her hair back up into a ponytail to make herself somewhat more presentable, she finds Mya, leaning back on two legs of her chair, an eyebrow raised, her face nearly swallowed by her grin as she lifts her hands, slow clapping quietly.

“Oh, shut up,” Ellie mumbles, cheeks burning as she plops into her chair. “You’re the _worst._ ”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoy all those theories about Max and Nico's family and Ellie's mother. All will be answered, I have like 90% of this fic plotted out, give or take some minor details and you know, actually writing it lol.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and I'd love to hear what you think!


	12. Part One, XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is super long but it's like 75% smut :D  
> Enjoy!

 

 

* * *

Chapter XII

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                “So, _Nico_ ,” Mya smiles, her voice sugary-sweet; Ellie sighs because she _knows exactly_ where this is going.

Ellie glares at her across the table, flicking her gaze to Nico who’s leaning against the kitchen island, watching them pack up their books.

“Ellie tells me you own Elysium.”

He smirks, his eyes flicking from Mya to Ellie and back again. “Did she?”

“Yup,” Mya says, popping the p. “It looks like a really amazing club, we’ve heard a lot about it.”

“Is that right?”

“ _Yup_ ,” she says again, her smile wide. Ellie fights the urge to kick her to get her to stop. She knows exactly what she’s angling for. “Like, it’s supposed to be the best club in the city.”

“Just the city?” he teases as if he knows exactly where this is going.

“Well, I mean, it’s pretty hard to get into, you know, so…I can’t say, like, from _experience._ ”

He snorts, crossing his arms and looking at Ellie. “I take you two want me to let you be delinquents together.”

Mya grins. “We wouldn’t be delinquents if we were in your club with you. It would be more like… a guided tour.”

“A guided tour,” Nico drawls, looking like he’s trying not to laugh, his gaze shifting back to Ellie. “You want to go to Elysium?”

Ellie shrugs. Isn’t sure how to say she’s as curious to go back into his club as she is to not think about it. Or think about what kind of place it is. She knows the rumours. They all do.

 _Or, shit,_ she thinks, _maybe he doesn’t._

“I mean… we’ve heard a lot about it.”

“If I was going to take you out, would it be alright if it wasn’t Elysium?”

“You own another one?” Ellie frowns, then berates herself for never really asking him more about his work. She really has no idea what he does when she’s not around.

“I do.”

“Which one?” Mya asks like she’s holding back on her answer until she hears her options.

“Aura?”

“You own _Aura too?_ ” Mya’s eyes go wide, her voice pitching high with excitement.

Ellie chews her cheek, can’t help but wonder why he doesn’t want to take them to Elysium if he’s willing to take them to Aura. Aura isn’t all ages, she knows, there’s only a few that are.

“I think Lomo is mixing there this weekend if you’re interested in Aura instead.”

Mya straightens, her eyes wide, clutching her backpack to her chest. “Really!”

“Really,” he huffs a laugh. “Ellie?”

She shrugs, stuffing the last notebook into her bag and rolling the pens into a side pouch. “Sure, I’m sure Aura will be great.”

Ellie’s pretty sure Mya isn’t even paying attention, rattling through thank you’s, her excitement spilling: _Is there a dress code, what do people normally wear, what time is best, how are the drinks, what’s the best drink, you’re coming too, right?_

But, as they’re heading out the door, Nico’s hand warm on her lower back, Ellie can’t help but think, _why not Elysium?_

 

 

 

 

 

 

                “Do you think it’s weird he doesn’t want to take us to Elysium?” Ellie says, hours later to the dark of the ceiling and the strip of rectangular light spilling in from the window.

“I think you think it is,” Mya mumbles, her blankets rustling as she rolls to face Ellie.

“I mean, Aura is twenty-one plus, just like Elysium, so…. why not Elysium?”

Mya doesn’t say anything; in the distance, a car honks, a door shuts in the hallway; Ellie wonders why it bothers her so much. If it’s just because she wants to know what kind of place it is, or if she’s more worried that he’s hiding something.

“He goes there, you know, like, one time we were hanging out, he had to run in and pick something up, you know? But he said he’d only be a minute and left me in the car.”

“Was he only a minute?”

Ellie sighs, blinking at the ceiling. “I mean, yeah.”

“Do you trust him?”

Does she trust him?

“I think so?”

“Think isn’t really a yes, El.”

Ellie closes her eyes, rolling over, blinking at the other girl in the dark; can just barely make out her eyes, covers pulled up over her mouth, her hair a dark mass against the white of her pillow.

“He’s just…” Ellie trails off, unsure what she wants to say.

“A lot older than you?” Mya offers, the covers tucking beneath her chin as she stares at Ellie across the space of their beds. “Super hot?”

Ellie nods, not sure what else to say; the room goes quiet, she knows Mya is waiting for her to say more.

_My dad, twice my age, hotter than should be legal and he wants me?_

Does she trust him? Ellie thinks she does. In the daylight, if anyone asked, she’d say yes without hesitation, but here, in the dark, with her worries filling up the quiet and the shadows like a living thing… she trusts him, but there’s a hesitation inside of her that she isn’t sure what to do with.

“What if Elysium really is some freaky sex club? What if he like, Christian Grey’s me?”

Mya snorts, her laughter muffled into her pillow. “ _Christian Grey’s you_ , oh my God.”

Ellie laughs before sobering. “No, but I’m serious. I asked him if he had a Red Room and he said no, so that’s like—”

“You _asked_?” Mya laughs. “Ellie! That’s hilarious… Though, honestly, never understood the appeal of those things. Always kind of weirded me out. Like, why do you need a whole other room for your sex life? What’s wrong with doing it in the bedroom? Why you need a _rack_ and like, rope?”

“Well, I mean, rope is kinda part of the whole bondage part of BDSM.”

“Yeah, but like, you need to do it in a medieval torture chamber? Like, bring the ball gags and handcuffs to bed, like normal people.”

“Oh my God,” Ellie laughs. “I hope he’s not into ball gags.”

“Just sayin’. You’ll tell me if he wants to whip you, right?”

“I promise,” Ellie grins, stifling her laughter. “No whipping.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

                In the rush to get ready for what Mya deems to be _a fucking fantastic Friday night,_ Mya had begged their normal esthetician to take them on their lunch break Thursday, which Ellie promises herself, sitting in classes that afternoon, she’ll never do again. Because she doesn’t mind the waxing itself, but the first few hours after are never the most comfortable, and sitting on a hard chair in a skirt throughout the rest of the school day… _sucks_.

But, by Friday, Ellie’s feeling silky and smooth and she always forgets how nice it is, that perfect smoothness after a wax; it never fails to leave her a little bit wanting throughout the day. Every time she crosses her legs or pushes her thighs together, leaves her a little flustered and…impatient.

An impatience that turns into a needy anticipation the closer to the last bell they get. With the excitement of getting to spend another weekend with Nico building inside of her, Ellie pushes her worries about Elysium away, telling herself that she really doesn’t have any reason to mistrust him; that he’s given her free rein of his home, his life and his honesties.

He’s not given her any reason to _doubt_ him.

(And, she reasons, if he is into something…fucked up, it can’t be any worse than the name she gasped as she rubbed herself in the shower that morning, her body strung tight imagining his fingers and voice telling her how good she is, how prettily she comes—)

If Elysium _is_ some sort of sex club, him owning doesn’t necessarily mean he’s into it. He’s just the proprietor.

A _business_ , just like he said. _Everyone likes to have fun, sweetheart._

She does, however, resolve to ask him more about himself, because she realises, with a little bit of embarrassment, that they usually talk about her.

And if they’re supposed to be…together, or _dating (_ _are they dating?_ She doesn’t even _know_ _)_ then they should be talking about each other, not just her.

With that decided, Ellie spends Friday in an excited (if not incredibly horny) daze, flicking into her phone’s Gallery more than she’ll ever admit to anyone, _ever,_ just to look at those photos again…one more time.

By the time the last bell rings, Mya and Ellie are rushing back to their dorm room to stuff an unreasonable amount of clothes into their bags because they’ve not settled on what to wear and choices are _important._

Four pairs of shoes, a curling iron and more make up than either girl would ever wear at once, stuffed on top of no less than four dresses, tights and skirts and shirts and—

“Woah-kay,” Ellie blurts as she shoulders her overnight bag. “We might have gone a little overboard.”

“Suck it up, Princess,” Mya says as she shoulders her own bag and stumbles a little. “We’re going to look great and you’re going to get some dick. And, if I’m lucky, I’ll find my own daddy and won’t have to live vicariously through you’re sexless, dry-humping life.”

“That’s mean,” Ellie pouts. “My virginity is no joke.”

“Really? I think it’s pretty funny,” Mya grins, nudging her.

Ellie rolls her eyes, pulling the door open so they can head out, sure Nico is already waiting, he always seems to be there before she is.

“I’m like… the virgin Sisyphus, I keep getting to the top, like, right there—” she lifts her hand, a steady climb. “And then—” she sinks it down, pouting as it goes. “I’m back at the bottom, still sexless.”

Mya laughs, nudging her shoulder. Their bags thumping against their thighs as they walk. “Virgin Sisyphus, oh my God, you definitely spend way too much time with Mister Hethridge.”

Ellie puts a hand on her chest, faux offended. “I do not! You take that back.”

“Sure sure,” she laughs. “Soon you’re going to be Ellie Hethridge and every joke you make is going to be about some book and I might have to disown you. And I swear if you quote Shakespeare or like, the Moby Dick guy, I’ll have to disown you, I’m sorry.”

Ellie laughs, her head dropping back. “Never!”

             

    

 

 

 

                Nico’s waiting, of course, because he’s never not early to pick her up and she swears he’s… _hers,_ but Mya is the one nearly skipping towards him.

“I’m not gonna lie, Ellie, if I didn’t love you, I’d be all over that like, _yesterday._ ”

Ellie snorts, taking Nico in as they get closer, that familiar roll of excitement and butterflies and _want_ bubbling up inside of her. His half-smile crooked, sunglasses hiding his eyes, hands tucked in his pockets and leaning, as always, against a sleek car.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he smiles, leaning down to kiss her cheek, all white teeth and dimples and Ellie’s heart trips even as everything inside of liquifies into happiness.

“Hi,” she says quietly, leaning up on her toes to wrap her arms around his neck, to let him straighten and pull her into him, the hug tight and brief and so perfect it aches a little.

Which is stupid, isn’t it? She thinks, it is, it’s _ridiculous_ , but she clings on and everything else... Everything that isn’t him… fades away.

 

 

 

 

                Nico drops their bags in the spare room, shooting a look at Ellie as Mya flops backwards against the bed, stretching out.

“Thanks for letting me crash here, Nico, it’s way better than stumbling back into our dorm through that stupid window.”

Nico’s brows tilt up. “You actually climb back through the window?”

“Yeah,” Ellie shrugs, trying not to blush. “There’s like, security at the front entrance of the dorms so…kinda have to?”

He laughs, leaning down to press a kiss to her lips, soft and too chaste for her liking, his hand warm on her hip. “Delinquent,” he teases, smirks and then heads out of the room, leaving the two girls to get ready for their night out.

Ellie watches him go, fighting the urge to follow, but instead folds herself, cross-legged at the top of the bed, hugging a pillow.

“I think we should try to get through that history homework before we get ready.”

Mya groans, grabbing the pillow from Ellie and smacking her with it. “Don’t be all responsible, I hate it.”

“Says the girl that gave me last weekend’s homework when I was out—”

“Not getting dicked-down like I _thought_ you were,” Mya interrupts. “Believe me, it was all in support of you losing your v-card, I thought I was doing it all in direct support of a charitable cause.”

Ellie’s mouth opens and shuts, laughter spilling out as she digs her toes into Mya’s side. “ _Charitable_?”

The other girl nods, her smile wicked. “Yes, _charity._ You need to fuck him, Ellie, I swear I can feel the sexual frustration rolling off you. Both of you, actually.”

“I know,” Ellie groans, grabbing the other pillow and pushing her face into it. “I’m kind of hoping it happens this weekend. Or at least, something happens this weekend. You know, more than—”

“Dry-humping like fourteen-year-olds in the back seat of their parent’s car?”

Ellie groans, cheeks pinking. “It was actually really hot.”

“I’m sure it was, I just think, you know, there’s like, better things you could be doing with his dick. Like touching it.”

“Or sitting on it,” Ellie grins, peeking at Mya as she sits up, pushing a hand into the tight mass of her dark curls and turning to face Ellie, sitting cross-legged.

“You bring a condom?”

“He’s got them, remember? I saw them in his bathroom.”

“Right, score one for Daddy, at least you know he practices safe sex.”

“Ugh,” Ellie groans, hiding her face again as her body tingles, insides twisting at the name. “Please don’t call him that.”

 _For the sake of my sanity,_ she thinks. _And underwear._

“I’m glad to see your denial game is as strong as ever,” Mya rolls her eyes, flicking Ellie’s knee. “Just do me a favour and tell me if he likes it when you scream it.”

Ellie smacks the other girl with the pillow, face pink and laughing. “It’s not like—”

“Oh, yes it is,” Mya laughs, twisting off the bed and away from Ellie’s reach. “You want to call him Daddy and get spanked and fucked and be told you’re his good—”

Ellie lunges, covering the other girl’s mouth, laughing and stumbling into her. “Oh my God, if I say yes will you shut up?”

Mya nods, her tongue pushing against Ellie’s hand.

“Yes, okay, yes, I really, _really_ do, but I—” she sobers, smile dropping. “I just don’t know if he’d be into it, it’s—”

_Truer than you know. More fucked up than you know. He’s actually, literally my daddy._

“—Weird.”

“It’s really… not that weird?” Mya says, lifting her brows as Ellie wipes her spit over her shirt, pulling a face. “Like, it’s pretty common? I think, anyway.”

Ellie shrugs, easing back onto the bed, toeing her bag closer to reach for her school books. “Yeah, maybe.”

Mya sighs, rolling her eyes. “Let's just study and get ready, I don’t know how long I’ll be able to focus anyway.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

                Unlike Elysium, Aura is lit up in gold and white lights, the music thumping as they pass the front of the building, the queue already spilling onto the sidewalk, full of skimpy outfits and probably smelling like Axe and hairspray.

Mya grins, Ellie doesn’t think she’s ever seen her so happy, but she can’t quite stop the intrusive little question of why they aren’t at Elysium.

It lingers in the back of her mind, another question that she doesn’t have an answer for, another curiosity she wants sated. Feeling like every day more she knows him, the more she needs to know.

But, then Nico is sliding out of the back seat of the car, holding the door open and Ellie is slipping out behind him, taking his hand, as he holds it out to her, and then to Mya.  

The cold pushes against her skin, even though she’s wearing a pretty warm peacoat to help ward off the chill of wearing only a thin, silky black dress; she shivers, crossing her arms, and swears she can already feel the bass beat thumping up through the ground.

And then Nico’s hand slides back into hers and he grins, that crooked one and says, _ready?_

 

 

               

And my God, she thinks, if Nico knows anything, it’s how to build a place to have a good time. If this is what he means by _businessman,_ then he’s fucking _good_ at it.

 

 

 

                There’s a group of women in the middle of a bachelorette party and somehow Mya and Ellie end up sucked into their group, the women obviously further along in their drinking, already shiny with sweat and some sort of glitter that ends up on Ellie’s skin as the night goes on.

It’s somewhere between the glitter, the pink tinted shots and the pink, half-smeared, press-on tattoo of a penis on her arm, that Ellie slides towards the edge of the dance floor, through the bodies and away from an overly friendly girl who tries to pull Ellie up onto one of the podiums for the more exhibitionistic dancers.

She heads up the stairs, the upper level somehow quieter, lit low with round, dull white lights that look like bubbles floating down from the ceiling.

She has to blink into the darker area, her eyes still seeing the shifting bright coloured lights of the dancefloor, the shifting bright coloured bodies all pressed together. She ignores the interested look she gets from two guys leaning on the railing, and heads towards where she thinks she remembers Nico’s sitting, because: _Go, have fun with your friend,_ he’d whispered into her ear, _try to stay a little sober for me, hm?_

Because he has a _thing_ _, apparently,_ where a drunk Ellie is an untouchable Ellie, and Ellie wants to be _touched_.

He’s there, his shirtsleeves rolled, white shirt stark against the black booths, a drink in his hand and his eyes already on her.

Ellie nearly stumbles as she slips between the small space between the low table and the booth seat. A graceless, alcohol-loose stumble, her hands a little sticky as she braces on the booth back to straddle him.

Nico looks at her as she settles onto his thighs, one of his hands landing on her thigh, near the hem of her dress, the same one she wore to their first… date. There’s laughter sitting in the little crease at the corner of his eye as she wiggles closer, more onto his lap.

His clothes are soft beneath her, warm from his body heat, and she can feel the shimmer of sweat and glitter and sticky-sweet alcohols on her hands, spilt from clinking shots and eager, urging girl’s voices, _for the last dick Zoe will ever ride!_

“Hi,” she grins, leaning forward to press her mouth to his.

“Hi,” he says against her lips, and even though the music is thumping and it’s still too loud, she can hear the pitch of his voice, carried in his eyes and the tilt of his mouth. It’s the same thing in hers, all wanting and warm and threatening to flare brighter. “Having a good time?”

Ellie nods, seeing his phone resting beside him, wondering if he’s bored or working or regretting the night altogether.

“You don’t want to dance?” she asks, trying not to wince because it sounds so stupid asking that when she thinks the question she really wants to ask is: _don’t you want to dance with me?_

“Not really my scene,” he says, his mouth still crooked, eyes moving over her face. He lifts his hand and brushes his fingers over her cheek. “You’re all sparkly.”

“You own a club,” Ellie frowns. “Two clubs.”

“I told you,” he smirks, fingers sliding along her jaw and towards her neck, clavicle, collarbone, the thin strap of her dress. “Everyone likes to have a good time. Even little girls who should be in their dorm beds.”

Ellie huffs, rolling her eyes. “So, you own clubs even though you don’t _like_ clubs.”

 “I don’t _not_ like them, they serve their purpose. I just wouldn’t come here without a reason.”

“Then what kind do you like?” Ellie asks, feeling goosebumps travel along her skin as his fingers trace the strap, shifting it down her shoulder in inching little slips.

Nico’s lips twitch like he’s going to smile, but he tilts his head back a little like he’s considering her words. “I’ll show you sometime. Take you out, just you and me.”

“So, you won’t dance with me, then?” Ellie says, pushing out her bottom lip a little. “Even if I say please?”

Nico’s chest shifts, a pushed out huff of air that’s half entertained and half caught on the idea of Ellie saying _please_.

“I don’t think it would work well for us,” he says, lower, his eyes darker, and Ellie feels his hands shift, caressing over her thigh, her calf, fingers brushing over her ankle. “Even in those heels.”

He isn’t wrong, there is a very real problem in dancing that’s more like grinding when their body parts don’t really align to make the most out of every shifting, body-rolling move.

Ellie pouts a little more. “Aren’t you bored sitting up here all alone?”

Nico smiles, crooked and entertained, turning and looking towards the dancefloor, Ellie following his gaze, down over the glass wall that lets the top floor look down to the bottom; she can see Mya and the pink-clad group of women they were with, all dancing in the same area.

“I’ve had a nice view most of the night. It’s kept me pretty distracted.”

Ellie bites her cheek, a little rush to know he’s been watching her dance, but impatient too, wanting more of him. A constant thing really, she thinks, the wanting.

“Creeper,” she teases and Nico pinches her bottom, making her jolt and squeak out a laugh.

“Just for you,” he says, his eyes moving over her like he really is fine just _watching her._

Ellie really hopes he can’t see her blush. “So, you’re not annoyed that I’m dancing with other people?”

His eyes narrow, just a little, his hands tightening on her waist to pull her harder into his lap. “That depends…are you coming home with me?”

Ellie nods, because _yes_ , of course she is.

“Then no, it doesn’t really bother me. I’m the one taking you home. The one who’s going to—” Nico nips at her jaw, his lips moving towards her neck. “Strip you naked—” another nip of his teeth, a hitch of her breathing. “Make you moan—” a harsh suck, pulling blood to the skin, making her hips roll into his, feeling the hardening length of his cock thicken beneath her. “Make you say _please—_ ”

She lets her head fall back, his hands slipping up her thighs, up under her dress as he sucks and marks her up just the way she likes. She knots her fingers into the back of his shirt, a little moan caught in her throat. A little thrill inside of her as his fingers twist into the hem of her underwear, a distant awareness that they’re in public and anyone could see them if they walked by.

 _Fuck_ , she thinks, someone on the other side of the upper level could be watching them... and, that probably shouldn’t turn her on as much as it does.

“Make you _come_ —” he rumbles, his breath hot on her neck, another sucking pull of his mouth, a nip of his teeth and Ellie whines, feeling the dampness of her underwear get a little wetter as she grinds against his cock.

“Can we leave now?”

Nico chuckles into her neck, pressing a kiss to the mark, the beat of her pulse in her jugular, the sharp of her jaw. “Whenever you want.”

“Now,” she moans, rolling her hips, tilting her neck in a silent little plea for him to mark her up some more. “More.”

Nico huffs, pulling her closer, his teeth sharp. “Say please.”

Ellie grins, scratching her nails against the back of his neck, grinding harder against him. “Make me.”

Nico grips her hips, his grin wicked; the music loud and beating with a rhythm Ellie falls into easily, his voice rough in her ear:

 _You_ _gonna dance for me, baby?_

Ellie nods, her head falling back.

 

It’s so much better than the dance floor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                Mya stumbles towards the spare bedroom, kicking off her heels as she goes, a giggly, _don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,_ followed by: _which is like, nothing, just so you know, El, like nothing—_ before she rounds the corner and out of sight with an echoing: _Have fun!_

“Your friend is certainly something,” Nico says from behind her. Ellie turns, smiling at him over her shoulder before leaning against the door to pull off her shoes.

“Yeah,” Ellie sighs as her foot leaves the arch of heels after the hours she’s spent in them. “She’s kinda the best.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, watching her from where he stands, leaning against the kitchen island, arms crossed over his chest.

 _Far too far away_ , she thinks.

He just looks at her, without saying anything else, the loft lit by the city lights and the faint glow of a light left on by the couch. She meets his eyes in the dark and that tension, unsated little ache between them builds like a chord being pulled tighter and tighter, binding them together.

Nico holds out his hand, pale in the dark, his face half in shadow. A quiet question, a weighted offer. The chord tightens, pulls taut.

Ellie wonders if it’s ever going to snap.

Her fingers slide into his, slowly, surely, something like skin and sex and _promise_ wrapped in each whorl, fingertips to palm to a weighted hold.

He turns, and Ellie follows; across the loft, her body focused on the promise in the heat of his hand, her eyes on the width of his shoulders, her mind wrapped up in images of skin and sex and his voice easing through all of it, _come on, Ellie, come for me._

The loft is nearly too quiet as they climb the stairs, their feet dulled in the dark, the city dulled through the thick glass. Everything muted and distant like there’s nothing in the world but them.

Up into his bedroom, the room a little darker without the straight- on glow of the other buildings around them. Just a soft, yellowed-ivory glow and his hand in hers.

He stops at the bed, turning to face her, sitting on the edge and letting go of her hand.

He still hasn’t said anything. Ellie thinks she’s itching to hear his voice nearly as much as her hand itches for him to take it again, as much as her body itches to let the chord pull tight between them, to sate that pull with skin on skin on lips and spit and teeth and tongue…

It is familiar though, this position, the same one that happened the night this all started…or not all of it, but the first time doubt gave way into hope _,_ gave way into _knowing_ ; the first time he really touched her and Ellie knew she wasn’t alone in all this fucked up, tangled mess.

She steps closer, his body heat like a vibration along that chord; sets her hands to his collar, his eyes on her face, his hands finding the back of her thighs, just like that first night.

Each button undone is a new inch of skin, is that chord being pulled tighter, her body winding tighter, hotter, _needier_. Every new inch of skin has Ellie biting her lip to stay still, to not jump him— he’s all thick muscles and hard angles, his arms flexing as he shifts one arm back and then the other, helping her push his shirt off his body.

His skin is hot and electric beneath her hands like it’s is a promise of what it’s going to be like between them. She presses her palms flat, slides them over his chest, his shoulders, his arms; her eyes following the path of her hands.

Nico lets her, his hands unmoving, burning against the back of her thighs.

She can feel him watching her, but she’s too focused on looking at him to care about the weight of his eyes.

Ellie licks her lips, pulling her bottom lip into her mouth, trying to hold back from just pressing into him and demanding he touch her, fuck her, do _anything_ with her.

Nico’s eyes follow the movement of her mouth; his Adam’s apple shifting as he swallows; his shoulders tense beneath her hands, a small flex of his arms as his hands caress higher up her thighs. An inching crawl beneath her dress, like steam crawling along the glass of a shower the hotter the room grows.

Over her ass, his fingers tracing the curves, gripping heavier like he likes the way each cheek seems to fit in the spread of his hands so easily.

She can’t look away from his eyes, her heart thudding, and for once she knows his is the same, a crescendo beneath all those hard angles and hard to read shadows, beneath all that muscle and bone.

For once, Ellie knows, he’s just as fucked up by this as she is.

His hands climb, her dress rising, caught on his wrists. His thumbs stroke over her hip bones, making her lips part, an exhale she can’t catch; his fingertips stroke the small of her back, her hips in his palms, her stomach tense and taut as he caresses her higher and higher, his hands surrounding her so easily.

Along her sides and her stomach, her dress rising as their pulses climb, two-timing things inside their chests.

She wants to tell him that it’s all so ridiculous, that it’s _nothing_ , that a touch shouldn’t mean so much, shouldn’t affect her this much, shouldn’t trip her heart and twist her stomach and leave her weak and desperate and dying for _more_.

But she can’t— she can’t say it because it’s not true.

She’s… _fucked,_ she thinks, and not in a good way.

When he reaches her ribs, Ellie thinks to tell him she’s not wearing a bra, but by the way he pauses, just for a moment, she thinks he’s already figured it out. She lifts her arms and lets that slow trek continue.

His hands are warm over her ribs, along the sides of her breasts, along her shoulder blades, his hands turning to grip her dress, knuckles brushing her arms, her hair pulling high, falling back against her skin as he tugs the dress over her head, and then lets it fall behind her.

Nico chest shifts, a deeper breath, his eyes sinking down and over her body.

Ellie swears her heart is about to climb out of her throat, a jittery feeling in her body, her stomach tense and twisting. Her nipples hard and she thinks, it _is_ so fucking ridiculous because she’s been naked around people before, has been topless around boys before, has felt hands on her skin and a mouth on her chest and she’s not—

She’s never been so fucking _breathless_ in her life.

And he’s just _looking_ at her, hasn’t even touched her again and she feels like she’s going to fucking lose her mind at any second. Her chest shifting in short little breaths, her fingers white tipped on his shoulders and she’s so close to turning away because she feels small and stupid and scrawny in the wake of him.

 _Say something,_ she thinks.

_Do something._

She wants to tell him there isn’t even that much there to _look at_ and _please just fucking do something—_

“What are you thinking about?” Ellie whispers, breathless and nervous and feeling like she’s about to fly apart, because he’s always asking her and she doesn’t know how to put her thoughts into words, not the way he does; the way he can voice all those bits that Ellie thinks should stay whispered and locked up behind her teeth. All the things she thinks they shouldn’t ever say out loud.

“That I want to fuck you,” he says easily, the words rolling up through his chest and into her, a full-bodied thing. “That I can’t believe you’re mine. That I want to eat you out until you’re begging for me to stop. That I want to take you home to meet my family, even while I hate the idea of sharing you, even with my mother. That I want to see how fucking big my cock is going to look inside of you.”

Ellie sucks in a breath, her heart pounding, her body hot and wanting for everything he just said; her face burning at all his brutal honesty.

His words ring, thudding… _I want, I want, I want—_

Ellie looks at him, feeling like she might be breathing too hard, watching the quiet, easy way he looks at her, like his honesties aren’t anything at all for him to bare.

She has no idea how he does it so easily. Each of hers feels like an inching guillotine, creaking down towards her neck.

How fucked up is too fucked up? What line is too far to cross?

“That your blush is so fucking sweet it kills me,” Nico says, his eyes shifting back down her body, shadowed in the low light. “And I feel like a fucking pervert for liking it.”

 _I want to call you daddy,_ she thinks, sinks her teeth into her tongue to hold it in, aches to let it out and can’t— _can’t get it out of her_ _fucking mouth._

They stare at each other for so long Ellie thinks the world could stop and she wouldn’t even notice.

Ellie closes the distance, pours her wants into his mouth like she can lick out the boldness and the bravery, the shamelessness on his tongue. Wants to tell him all the things she’s thinking, but chokes on the words every time she thinks to make her throat work.

But then his hands are back on her, all warm and wide on her sides as he lifts her, pulling her up and onto his thighs, her legs moving on instinct, knees braced on the bed, straddling his lap.

It feels like that stomach-tensing first step into too hot bath water, a breath pushed out of her as their chests press together; just skin on skin and angles on angles and heartbeat pressed to heartbeat.

 _God_ , she thinks, _it’s fucking ridiculous._

There’s still the tang of alcohol on her tongue and a bitter bite of whatever he was drinking, but it melts away beneath the stroke of their tongues like sugar dissolving in water; leaving her as sticky as her skin feels when she presses into him more, hot from dancing, hot from wanting, aching from moving, aching from _holding_ _back_.

It loops between them, and the kiss gets harder, heavier, hungrier. Nico kisses her like he’s about to fuck her, his hands iron-tight on her hips, shifting down to her ass, gripping on because Ellie can’t keep still, needs more and more still—

Snakes her fingers between their bodies to get at his belt, wants more skin on skin, wants to feel his cock against her, wants that hard, iron-hot thickness to burn against her stomach or between her legs.

The clink of metal is loud, but he doesn’t stop her, lets her work his belt loose while he kisses her and steals her breath, their lips hot between stolen bits of air before the next rough, deep kiss.

She yanks it out, letting it slip to the floor like her dress, her fingers fumbling to get at his pants and she gets the button popped before Nico’s body tenses, his hands bruising in and Ellie’s world shifts—

And she’s on her back, the duvet cold beneath her bare skin, but before she can complain, Nico is pushing between her legs and his skin is back against hers and he’s swallowing down the gasp of her surprised exhale when she hit the bed.

He’s hot and heavy and the first body-heavy shift of his hips into hers has her wrapping her legs around his waist and pushing her hips up to meet it. Breaking her mouth away from his, gripping at his arms as her spine bends and her voice breaks into a torn little inhale that twists into some strained broken noise she can’t even begin to explain.

He nips her jaw, sucks at her neck, his biceps tense around her head, one hand curling to grip onto her hair, and it’s so much better than any fantasy she imagined of what it would be like to have him on top of her, his hips rolling against the slippery wet of her underwear, can feel the weight of his cock and the rough, nearly painful brush of his zipper against her every time she grinds back against his thrusts.

She reaches between them again, and Nico grits out a curse, pushing back to help her shove at his pants; it’s graceless and not nearly anywhere as smooth as she imagined he’d be. He shoves them down only far enough that she can see the strain of his cock in the black of his underwear and it’s a little fucking terrifying how big it looks, but then he’s bracing back over her and catching her mouth and rolling that bulk against her cunt and it’s fucking—

_Perfect._

Ellie grips at his shoulders as she moans, arms wrapping around his neck, his mouth slipping over her cheek because she can’t stop the _oh, God_ that breaks out of her; Nico’s body is hot but his cock is even hotter through that thin layer of her underwear that’s all but stuck and soaked to slippery against her sex and the cotton of his underwear it’s the best thing she’s ever fucking felt.

It’s so easy to imagine it now, how it would— how it _will_ be when he fucks her. Nico braced on one forearm, the other gripping at her thigh, her ass cheek, pulling her lower body higher so each thrust of his hips, each grind of his cock covers more of her cunt.

His breath is hot against her neck, his fingers slippery as he gropes her ass cheek, fingers long enough to curve around it, to sink beneath her underwear, right between her cheeks. His fingertips brushing the bare, slippery wet of her that’s leaking and slicking between her thighs and makes his fingers slick as he brushes her sex. Ellie hitches out an _ohgod—_ and feels his chest rumble before she even really understands he’s speaking.

“Fuck,” Nico curses, and his fingers brush lower, slippery and too light and _so close_ to that ache inside of her that she whimpers and squirms beneath him, trying to arch her hips, to get his fingers closer, to feel that first stretch—

But his mouth is on her neck, pulling a mark out that makes her hitch a breath, his teeth sharp, the pressure building before he licks over it and then kisses her pulse, her clavicle, the thin skin between her breasts; his mouth hot, his tongue hot, his kiss all wide and hungry for her skin.

“Tell me what you want,” he growls into her skin, his lips wet, his voice rough.

Ellie whimpers, doesn’t think she could speak if she wanted to as he presses a kiss to the curve of her breast, as his lips brush the hard peak of her nipple, his breath hot and making it hard for her to stay still.

“Tell me you’ve thought about this.”

She nods, quickly, stupidly, knowing he’s not looking up at her; grips the tight flex of his shoulders, the nape of his neck, scratches against his scalp, back down over the tense of his back as the heat of his mouth surrounds her nipple and makes her gasp all sharp and high.

Nico flicks his tongue over it, makes her spine bend as he sucks at it, a scrape of his teeth that makes her whimper.

He groans against her skin, his stubble rubbing against her nipple as he nips at the side of her breast, her chest quivering, her nipple hard and peaking in the cold air after the heat of his mouth leaves her skin shining. Kisses across her chest to suck a mark against the side of her other breast, to tease the skin, to scrape his teeth and make her body twitch.

“You’re so sensitive,” he grits out, all rough and low, his teeth scraping her nipple again, her spine twitching higher, her voice breaking on his name.

And then, his hips stop.

Ellie thinks _what the fuck—_

Because she’s wet and so _close_ and she needs to grind against him just a _little_ bit more—

Ellie whines, rolling the wet of herself against his cock, his underwear damp from their grinding; her thighs close tighter around him, but all he does is shift back on the bed, kneeling between her legs. He grips her hip, the other pulling out from where it was tucked between her cheeks, fingertips damp on her skin as his hand glides over her hip and onto her stomach, spread wide, caressing up, palming her breast, or covering it, more like, his hand so much larger than her small curves.

Nico looks at her in the dark, his thumb strokes her nipple, rolling over it, the feeling flickering through her and sparking inside of her; Ellie licks her lips her chest shifting as she breathes, _too quick,_ she thinks, but can’t quite catch her breath. Another pass of his thumb, the peak of her nipple caught beneath his thumb, a pinching roll that makes her bite her lip as she feels that flicker spark brighter, making her hips twitch, the ache inside of her growing hotter.

Nico shifts back a little more, and Ellie watches the flex of his abs, the way his hips look, the low, open v of his pants and the bulk of his cock trapped in his boxer-briefs. She swears she gets wetter, feels her insides clench, his hand caressing her breast, fingertips brushing her nipple; down the middle of her chest, the shifting of her belly…spread wide between her hips, his thumb brushing along the sensitive skin above the hem of her underwear.

And then he leans down, his shoulders broad and heavy, his hand on her hip to hold her still, his muscles tense… presses a kiss to her stomach, a wide-mouthed thing with a hint of teeth. Another, as he sinks lower, his teeth scrape lightly over the shifting of her belly and it makes her body twitch and her nails dig into his shoulders as he sinks lower and Ellie thinks _oh God—_

As he kisses and mouths down her stomach, his fingers curling into the band of her underwear over her hip.

She makes a noise, but it’s not coherent at all, just whiny and strained with _please—_

“Tell me what you want,” Nico demands, his voice rolling through his chest and into her as his breath falls heavy and hot against the skin just above her underwear.

She wants to ask him why he’s always asking her that, but she thinks she knows, thinks she understands, that he asks because he wants to know, that he _needs_ to hear her wants and _yeses_ and _please_ —

(She thinks it’s the same reason he wanted her mostly sober, that there are lines they’re crossing and neither one of them wants to be alone with the choices.)

Ellie nods, her hands gripping at his shoulders, watching the dark of his hair, the near blue shine of it in the darkness, the faint glow of the city lighting him up into angles and shadows and something she wants to devour her in open-mouthed gulps.

She feels the weight of his knuckles against her hip, the slow, inching descent of her underwear, the heat of his breath on her skin.

“I need you to say it,” Nico demands, all gritty and low, his chin brushing against her mound. That ache throbs brighter, hotter, her thighs twitching against his biceps, torn between closing and opening; her toes curling against his thighs as he hunches over her.

Ellie bites her lip, her heart pounding, her hips inching up towards his mouth no matter how much she tries to keep still. Strokes a hand through his hair to tug at the dark strands, to scrape his scalp, to watch his eyes close briefly, eyelashes all dark, heavy shadows before he exhales, a warm rush of air on her skin.

Nico leans back, looking down at her in the dark. His hands curling around the sides  of her underwear on her hips. His knuckles hot on her skin. Her sex throbbing. A shiny wet mark on her hip from his mouth, her pulse beating beneath it.

Ellie grips at the duvet, twisting the fabric, can’t keep still while his eyes sink over her body, her toes digging into his thighs, his hips, sliding off and pushing out over the bed before coming back to curl her toes on his thighs.

“ _Please_ ,” she begs, hips twitching, a shine on the inside of her thighs that’s all her own slick arousal. Isn’t that enough? Can’t he see how much she wants it? Isn’t it all dripping and smeared between them?

Nico’s eyes lock with hers like he’s looking for something, waiting maybe; Ellie licks her lips and sets her hands over his, urging them down.

It feels molasses slow, his knuckles against her skin, his eyes sinking down to watch.

“Christ,” he curses, as the first inch of her bare sex is exposed to him; the first glistening shine as he pulls her underwear further down, his knuckles white. His voice rough and so close to a groan it makes her core clench as he pulls her underwear down lower, as more of her comes into view. “Look at you.”

Nico’s leaning forward even before her underwear reaches her thighs, pulled tight in his grip, her hips rising as his mouth opens, a hot, open-mouthed kiss on cunt, a sudden stomach-tensing heat, slick and hungry; close enough she can feel the heat of his mouth just above her clit; a brush of his tongue, a rolling gravelly groan deep from his chest: _so fucking pretty,_ _baby._

He leans back only long enough to tug her underwear off the rest of the way, pushing his hands up the inside of her thighs, leaning down for another wide, open-mouthed kiss; his tongue just barely brushes her clit and Ellie whimpers, her hips twitching up against his mouth, seeking more, begging for more.

She can’t stay still, one of his hands slipping beneath her ass, pulling her a little closer to his mouth, lifting her hips up a little higher, her foot braced on his hip before he pushes the back of her thigh, spreads her open more, her toes curling on his shoulder, trembling.

Ellie watches him sink lower, watches his eyes, lidded but looking at the spread of her as his fingers stroke along the inner curve of her thighs and his thumb scrapes the tendon between her sex and the thigh, just barely ghosting it; Ellie tenses, a noise breaking out of her.

It curls in her stomach, makes her cheeks burn, feeling exposed and achy and _empty._

“Please,” she whines, her fingers sinking into his hair, pushing him lower.

There’s a flash of a smile on his lips, his teeth white in the dark like a wolf’s hungry grin, but then his mouth is on her and Nico groans as Ellie’s body tightens, spine arching at the first full, hot press of his mouth.

His tongue strokes over her, flat and heavy, like he’s licking up the slick of her, tasting her, gathering everything she’s leaking out to swallow her down.

“You’re fuckin’ _sweet_ ,” he groans into her, his tongue chasing the taste, flicking over her clit, all heavy and wide before sealing his mouth over it.

Nico sucks at it, the pull of his mouth makes her spine bend, makes her hips roll, makes her voice break out of her in some desperate, hitching gasp.

He curls his arms under her legs, holding her thighs wide with the width of his shoulders as he grips her ass and lifts her hips, angling her so he can devour her easier. Her toes curling, one foot pushing against the meat of his shoulder, trembling, the other sliding against his side.

She jolts when his tongue presses against her entrance, licking over it, around it, back up to her clit and then back to push the hot of his tongue inside of her.

Nico’s hands tighten, his fingertips slipping between her ass cheeks, spanning them, a groan caught in his throat when her hips twitch and she presses harder against his mouth on her own. He pulls her a little higher, the pressure of his mouth hotter and heavier, tongue flicking and pressing against her clit in a steady, maddening rhythm and encouraging the twitching, needy roll of her hips against his mouth.

 “Fuck—” Ellie gasps, all high and reedy on an inhale; nails scraping his scalp, her voice cutting off as she sucks in another desperate breath, her hands shaking as she grips and twists her fingers into his hair. Her chest trembling as her spine climbs, hips rolling against his face as Nico eats her out with a hunger she didn’t know existed.

Just like she imagined, a flash of teeth, the heat of his mouth, the glide of his tongue as he licks up everything he works out of her, swallows it all down like it’s the best thing he’s ever fucking _tasted_.

He sucks at her clit again, urging her hips to roll faster; it builds, all hot and wet, and pooling between her hips, building like a dam, rolling along her nerves and lighting her up.

She’s been eaten out before, she swears she has, but this feels like—

Like she’s coming apart at the seams, like every stroke of his tongue, every nip of his teeth over her clit makes her spine arc higher, her mouth open, and her hair knotting beneath her head. It isn’t until she’s throwing one arm back to brace against the headboard, the other buried in his hair, that she realises she’s all but riding his face as he eats her out like he doesn’t even need to _breathe_.

Her nails scrape his scalp, her hand squeaks against the headboard, her voice breaking out of her in desperate hitching cries. That ache inside of her growing, throbbing, burning—

Her whole body trembles, Nico’s mouth unravelling her body inch by burning inch. She feels the crest of her orgasm like it’s a thing unwinding inside of her, leaking out, over his teeth and tongue and chin all sloppy, soaking wet.

She feels out of her body, and somehow so wholly every fucking inch of her body that she can’t focus on anything but the way he eats her, his tongue merciless on every focused, cruel flick.

Can’t focus on anything until she feels his thumb, pressing just against the clenching, empty, leaking spread of her. A slippery wet stroke over her opening before he presses just a little bit inside of her—

Ellie cries out, her hips twitching down and it slips a little further inside of her and she’s—

“Please—” Ellie cries, trying to roll her hips lower, but his grip is too tight, his tongue rolling against her clit as he sucks it, the pressure so perfect that she’s sobbing; his thumb stroking over the needy empty place she wants him so desperately to fill, before he’s tucking the tip of his thumb back in and she’s—

Breaking open, that strung tight ache inside of her unravelling completely and flooding out of her in a hot, spine-arching rush.  Her body tensing, strung tight like a bow and then easing into a trembling mess; she sobs and twists her fingers into his hair so tight it has to hurt him, but all he does is groan, licking her up, chasing every drop, every hip twitch and jerky, shaking jolt of her body.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Ellie sobs, turning her face into the pillow that she’s somehow gripping onto and doesn’t remember reaching for; her thighs trying to close around his head, her cunt spasming against his thumb, still hooked inside of.

Nico presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss just above her clit and she jolts, whimpers and then cries out as his thumb slips a little deeper inside of her while her body is still burning and shaking from her orgasm.

She swears she can feel the leak of her arousal over his thumb; how slick it is, each time he straightens it to rub around her entrance, each time he hooks it to press back inside of her. His voice low and gritty, hungry and chest deep, whispering wanting things she can’t focus on because his thumb is _cr_ _uel;_ teasing her with it, can’t even clench around it despite how much her muscles spasm every time he hooks it, no more than an inch inside of her.

She whines when he nips her clit with his teeth, his voice rough, _fuckin’ perfect_ _—_

Every slow stroke of his tongue makes her hips twitch, her thigh quiver against his shoulder, her body electric-bright. She swears he laughs into her cunt because he strokes his hand up her thigh like he’s enjoying that little muscle spasm she can’t stop.

It’s too much, she thinks, gasping into the pillow, but he isn’t stopping and she thinks to shove him away just so she can fucking find her mind but he’s sucking at her clit again and she’s left writhing and squirming beneath him.

 _It’s too much_ and Nico doesn’t stop, no matter how Ellie whines as she presses her hand against the top of his head, her limbs unsteady and weak, her thighs shaking as they try to close. Nico smiles against her, she can feel it, the slip of his lips and the slickness of his face before he’s holding one thigh wide with a heavy grip and licking her up.

“Wait—” she gasps, but he works her back up so quickly that the tensing of her arms turns into a tremble, turns into curling toes, turns into her pressing both her hands into his hair to push him off but all she ends up doing is twisting them in as he sucks at her clit, his thumb pushing deeper, just enough that when her cunt tightens on the next stroke of his tongue, Ellie can clench around it—

And she’s never had anything but her own fingers inside of her, never _really_ felt something inside of her, never felt that spasm of her own muscles around _anything like this._

She sobs, breathless, her spine arching, her hips twitching to press down, her body seeking more, more stretch, more pressure, _more—_

Ellie tries to squirm lower, but every pass of his tongue, every sucking pull of his mouth and grinding groan of his face into her makes it harder to think, harder to breathe, harder to focus on anything that isn’t how quickly she feels the unravelling of her insides as the curl of her orgasm burns up between her hips and leaks out of her.

And then Nico’s thumb sinks deeper, deep enough to pull desperate noises out of her; pushing in and then slipping back out to spread more of that slick over her cunt for him to lick up and drag over her clit in a maddening, spine-arching, body shuddering pattern.

“ _God_ —” Ellie sobs as his thumb slides back in, her hair knotting beneath her head, another orgasm burning between her hips. Her cheeks burning, her toes curling on his shoulders—

 _“Daddy_ —”

 

The world stops.

 

Nico stops.

 

Ellie sucks in a trembling, shuddering breath. The sound of the word, the pitch of it in the dark, rings in her ears and she’s sucking in air fast enough that it makes her breasts quiver; the word a knife cutting through reality as it sinks into her ears and realisation comes like the crawl of sweat down her spine, an itchy, hot feeling.

_Daddy._

She said it, didn’t she?

“I’m sorry!” Ellie blurts out, pushing at his shoulders and trying to get her knees under his chest to squirm out from under him. Her mind and heart racing as she sucks in a breath; the crest of her arousal swallowed by embarrassment and shame and a sudden, cold fear.

 _She’s so fucked up_ , she thinks, _so fucking messed up._ There’s something _wrong with her_  to have ever even thought about saying it at all. “I didn’t mean to— I know it’s— I—”

She can’t look at him, tenses when she feels him move, pushing her legs wider with his body as he braces over her, ignoring the way she’s trying to roll away from him.

“Ellie,” he murmurs, and it’s so dark and low it makes her shiver and she _can’t look at him—_

 But his hands are grabbing hers and he’s pushing her back down to the mattress, pushing her arms up above her head, his voice heavier. “ _Ellie_.”

Ellie shakes her head, thinking he’s going to tell her that she’s fucked up, that it’s too fucked up, that she can’t possibly think he’d want to be _reminded_ of who she is and what she _should be_ to him.

“Baby, look at me.”

She gets a knee up, against his chest and turns her head away, her cheeks burning, overly aware of the skin she presses against, how naked she is beneath him, how wet she is because he just ate her out and she shouldn’t even be _thinking_ the word while his mouth is on her and his thumb is inside of her but—

But—

Nico grips her wrists in one hand, pinning her down; grips her chin with the other, turning her head back to face him and she’s not a coward, she _isn’t—_ so she meets his eyes and clenches her teeth and ignores the thumping of her heart that gives away all the things she’s actually feeling.

He’s all shadows and sharp angles and he’s breathing is heavy, his chest hot, his heart thumping against her knee. Nico searches her face like he can read her even in the dark.

“Say it again.”

Ellie blinks.

Bites her tongue because she _can’t_ , she can’t say it again, she should never have said it at all.

She shakes her head, and Nico watches her, his eyes heavy, too heavy and she wants to squirm away, wants to close her eyes, wants to tell him she didn’t mean it, wants to tell him she _does._ Wants to tell him she’s gotten off to it more times than she can count.

Wants to tell him, flat out, that she is _fucked up._

 _You break it, you buy it,_ she thinks because she’s never been like this before he came into her life.

But he’s leaning down, holding her chin tight, and when he kisses her there’s a sweetness in his mouth that tastes like that kiss after he licked her release off her fingers, a heat in his lips that’s friction and pressure from eating her out, and a slickness on his face that’s all her.

He kisses her, slow but no less deep, no less consuming than the way he devoured her, ate her out like getting her off was the only thing that mattered to him.

His hand strokes her cheek; it’s wet, slick with everything he’s been working out of her and it makes her stomach tighten; the weight of his hand as it curves over the side of her neck, over the hummingbird beat of her pulse, her collarbone, chest, thumb brushing her nipple, making her shiver and breathe out against his mouth as her body twitches.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, his lips brushing hers.

It’s right there on her tongue, each vowel, the sound of it in her mouth, licked out on his tongue, but she can’t say it, can’t push it out.

His hand sinks down her stomach, the slope between her hips, the soft wet of her mound. Nico kisses her, slow and steady and as smooth as warm honey, his fingers slipping over her, slipping through all that slickness he’s licked out of her. Her stomach quivers as her insides do, anticipation building, a little pulse-throb in her cunt, so focused on his fingers and what they’re going.

Nico brushes her clit, lightly, just grazing, two fingers, too slippery and soaked by her own release to do much more than tease her.

Her limbs twitch, her thighs trembling against his sides, _daddy_ sits on her tongue and she aches to say it.

“You’re mine aren’t you, Ellie?” he whispers, his lips brushing hers, eyes dark and hungry and watching her.

His fingers stroke heavier, Ellie sucks in a breath, her nipples hard and peaking, her toes curling as he rubs her, slowly, a slick sound in the quiet that makes her cheeks burn.

“Aren’t you?”

Ellie nods, biting her lip.

 _Tell me,_ he murmurs, all low and warm against her mouth, kissing her, a light thing that leaves her wanting as her hips twitch, as the coil inside of her tightens and unravels all at once beneath his fingers.

“Yes,” she whispers.

 Nico rubs over the soaking mess of her and—

And her body is sparking, voice breaking; spine bending, head falling back and gasping as he pushes one finger up inside of her, slow and steady and so long it feels endless.

Nico watches her face, his finger stroking inside of her, that slick sound louder, brighter—

“You’re mine, Ellie, I knew it the fucking _second_ I saw you,” he murmurs, all low and sweet against her mouth, watching every reaction that breaks across her face as he pushes another finger inside of her, his hand twisting a little to work them deeper; making her tense and cry out because _fuck,_ his fingers are long and thick and Ellie’s never had anything but her own fingers inside of her except once, when her first boyfriend wiggled the tip of his finger inside of her after a party when she was fourteen. “ _My pretty little girl.”_

He strokes them in, kissing her, or trying to because she’s panting too hard to kiss him back properly; gasping into his mouth; her head tilting back, her breath rough and voice desperate.

“Ohg-god—”

Nico kisses her jaw, her neck, his hand coming off her wrists to let Ellie grip at him, Her arms winding around his shoulders, trying to tuck her face into his neck. But Nico grips onto her hair, his forearm braced beside her head, his body shifting to stretch out beside hers, holding one her thighs between his legs. The brush of his pants against her skin makes her burn a little brighter, the reminder of how bare she is next to him, the cotton, iron-hot bulk of his cock against her thigh, a twitch of it she can feel when she grips onto the flexing of his arm, looking down between them to watch his fingers.

His fingers glisten when he pulls them out, a twist of his wrist and pushes them back in, angled to rub against that spot inside of her that sends a little rush of arousal out of her, pulls a cry out of her as his thumb pushes over her clit to rub at it.

She can’t stay still, her body burning up, his thumb heavy, his fingers focused on that spot inside of her that makes her voice break and her body tremble; nails digging into his skin, that chord inside of her pulling tighter and tighter and tighter—

“Come on, baby,” he whispers into her mouth, his arm shifting as he fucks her all slow and steady with his fingers and uses the grip he has on her hair to hold her face to his. “Say it.”

That wet noise fills the quiet beneath her breathing and the thudding of her heart and she’s so fucking close to the edge, her hips rolling, her foot sliding against the duvet, a mindless squirm for more, to get away from his fingers and thumb; gasping against his mouth—

Nico leans over her more, catching her lips for a breathless, graceless kiss. _Say it,_ he growls, his lips hot against hers.

“ _Daddy_ —” Ellie sobs before he kisses her hard, his fingers curling harder, making her cry out, licking into her mouth, his hand nearly too tight in her hair.

 _Daddy,_ Ellie gasps into his mouth, again and again as he pushes her into an orgasm that leaves her wet-eyed and gripping at him. Ellie comes with _daddy_ hitching out of her chest and Nico’s eyes watching her unravel and twitch and tremble and shake as his fingers slow, stroking the rush of her orgasm out of her, so slick and wet her body burns a little brighter for the sound they make inside of her.

“Fuck,” he growls, kisses her, rough and hungry and sloppy—

And then he’s shifting over her, pushing up, and leaning back, Ellie blinks, mind still lost to the tense, trembling of her body, his fingers still buried inside of her as her muscles flutter around them.

He shoves at his underwear with his other hand, and his cock falls free, heavy and hard and so thick it makes her cunt clench harder on his fingers, his cock twitching in response; Nico curses and twists them up and deeper to make her whole body jolt.

Ellie watches the shine, on her thighs and his hand and then his fingers as he pulls them out of her and grips at his cock, stroking it, his forearm tensing, muscles shifting—

Nico slicks himself up with her release and Ellie’s breath catches at the sight of it; pulse ticking up, a rush of want and a trip of hesitation, it's bigger, heavier, thicker than she ever could have imagined from their grinding.

The thick, corded length of his cock slips through his fist, slippery and shiny with her orgasm as he works his cock over her; something so base and perverse in watching him, the twist of his wrist over the thick head, down the flushed iron-hard length...

Ellie can’t tear her eyes away from it.

Nico watches her, eyes moving over her body, her face, and his other hand spreads wide between her hips, his thumb flicks her clit once, twice, to watch her mouth open and her hips twitch, something terrifyingly hungry on his face.

He fists his cock, presses his thumb against the swollen bud of her clit and then growls, _say it—_

And Ellie twitches, gasps, hitches— _Daddy._

Nico comes with a low grunt that does something to her she can't explain; his abs flexing, hand working over his cock, come splattering in a sticky-hot mess from cunt to belly to the quiver of her breasts.

Nico works his cock slower, another rope of come, a twitch of his hips, his muscles tense, a tick of his jaw as he watches it paint her mound in sticky white.

 “Christ,” he burrs, voices little ragged and slow his cock softening as he strokes it, still so thick and long that it’s a little terrifying, she thinks, and can’t help but wonder if it’s even going to _fit._

Ellie bites her lip, heart thumping even as her cunt clenches at the idea of it. (The stretch, the fullness, the way she knows he’ll ease her through it.)

Nico drags a hand through his hair, eyes moving over her, sitting back on his knees, his chest shifting as he catches his breath, just _looking at her._

Ellie tries not to squirm, but his come cools and sticks to her skin and she’s overly aware of her body and the little tremble still in her thigh and the small peak of her breasts.

Nico touches her hip, his thumb stroking through a splatter of come, rubbing it into her skin. His eyes flick up to hers, his gaze heavy, full up with something she has no name for.

 

When he leans forward to press his lips to hers, Ellie feels her spine ease, his mouth full of warmth and want as he kisses her, all honey smooth. Wraps her arms around his neck and breathes him in, pressed chest to chest and heartbeat to heartbeat.

 

 

 

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a question that occurred to me while writing this, and I did some quick research and I'm honestly still curious. What do most people who read smut prefer in regards to terms? Like, most of the things I read were in reference to m/m smut and not a lot of f/m... do any of you have words that you absolutely hate? For example, I dislike when the vagina is called a kitten, it makes me nope out loud, don't like it at all.  
> So I'm curious, as I know I use stronger words, like cunt/cock, but don't tend to use pussy/dick unless it's in dialogue, how do you feel about sexual/body terms?
> 
> Confession: I've never read fifty shades, to be quite honest, but I will probably make fun of it more than once.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed the smut! Let me know what you think!


	13. Part One, XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me some heck, hopefully you enjoy it anyway, love to hear what you think :)

 

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* * *

Chapter XIII

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                Ellie wakes to moonlight and an empty bed.

 

Naked, curled up beneath body-warm blankets, blinking into the dark as her mind shifts like the soft sound of her skin slipping along the sheets as she stretches out and—

Feels an empty cold space behind her.

Frowning, Ellie rolls over, stretching her hand out across the empty expanse of white sheets to find them cold, the only trace of the man she fell asleep wrapped up in is the smell clinging to his pillow and her skin.

Sitting up, the sheet held to her chest, Ellie blinks into the dark, the faint glow of moonlight a pale, pastel blurry hue.

“Nico?” she whispers, shivers, shifts across the bed to slip off it; the floors cold beneath her toes until her foot hits a soft fabric and she looks down, finding her dress and his button up wrinkled and spread out on the floor as they left them…hours ago, she thinks, can’t be much longer than that, with how dark it still is outside.

She grabs his shirt and pulls it on but doesn’t bother buttoning it, just wraps it around herself like a robe and shivers as she crosses the length of his bedroom to the bathroom, peering inside, whispering his name again, though she doesn’t know why… the room is empty and cold in the pastel-pale moonlight of marble and glass and city lights stretching north like twinkling little stars.

Licking her lips and pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, Ellie peeks into the too large closet next, but it’s just as empty as the bathroom; just clothes and shelves and the faint smell of _Nico_ lingering.

There’s a tick of nerves in her belly, a feeling like bitterness at the back of her tongue… how many times now, has she woken up alone and wondered where he’s been?

“Nico?” she whispers, leans out into the small hallway that leads to the stairs, but all she finds is more moonlight and shadows.

Wrapping her arms tighter around her middle, holding his shirt closed against her body, thankful for the too-large drape of it, the hem falling nearly to her knees, Ellie makes her way down the stairs.

She’s halfway down when she hears the click of the front door.

Nico slips in, his hand on the knob, holding it as he shuts the door just as quietly as he entered, the deadbolt sliding with a gentle thud that’s so much louder in the dark and her curiosity tinged with questions that are all tilting into _what the fuck._

But, she watches Nico turn, pushing a hand through his hair, his chest shifting as he sighs; he’s wearing a white button up and a suit jacket, tie-less, but no less put together than any other day she’s seen him, despite the fact that Ellie thinks it has to be sometime between three and five, since they got back from the club after one thirty and then… did other things.

He catches sight of her as his hand falls back to his side, his face shadowed, but there’s something on it that makes her body tighten. She doesn’t know what it is, it’s too…full of shadows, too far away to really see anything, she thinks.

It’s just shadows, that’s all it is.

“What are you doing?” she whispers, holding herself tighter, trying to not shiver more, because his loft may be nice, but it’s all glass and it’s cold in the night, and she’s naked and a little…tense.

Nico doesn’t answer right away, his eyes flicking over her, his steps quiet as he crosses the space between them, stepping up to the last step, his eyes moving over her again.

“There was a problem at the club,” he says lowly, not quite a whisper, his hand easing up her arm like he’s afraid to startle her… or touch her, she isn’t sure which.

“At Elysium?”

He nods, and Ellie’s limbs tremble a little, but she isn’t entirely sure if its from the cold or something else.

The questions are there, right there, she thinks: _What is that place, really? Why don’t you want me to go? Is it what they say it is, what I hear it is?_

_Was what we did not…good? Is that why you went?_

Nico’s hands close around her crossed forearms, his fingers hot, making her shiver; her skin pebbled and limbs tight. But he eases his hands around them, all slow like the crawling shadows, the trek of moonlight on the dark of his wood floors.

He pulls her arms down to her sides, his hands slipping away, his eyes on the fall of his shirt on her body as he lifts one hand to the collar, his fingers brushing her throat, trailing down on her skin, easing the shirt wider.

Her nipples are already peaked, but she feels them tighten as her stomach does, more for the slow exposure, the way he looks at her, than the cold on her skin.

Nico’s eyes sink down over her, slowly, like he’s committing it to memory, like she’s something to be taken in and enjoyed _. Remembered._

His fingers brush, barely there, just along the inner curve of her breast, a whisper of a touch in every shift of her chest as she breathes. A flutter in her stomach as his fingers trail down, more on the edge of the shirt than actually touching her, like it’s less his skin on hers making her shiver, but just the heat of his hand, the displacement of air, the _idea_ of his touch.

Nico’s eyes sink down as his hand does, slow, molasses smooth.

It’s so hard not to fidget, to squirm and turn away and just blurt out, _what are you looking at?_

“What happened at Elysium?” Ellie whispers, toes curling on the cold stairs, holding herself still as he _looks_ at her.

“Just an argument,” Nico says lowly, his eyes moving slowly back up to her face. “People don’t always know when to quit.”

“Don’t you have bouncers for that?”

His lips twitch up and he steps up onto the stairs, looming for a second, over her, making Ellie step up and back, her hand darting out to the railing, her head angled high to look up at him.

“Sometimes you need more than muscle to deal with problems.” He smiles, slow, crooked, taking another step; Ellie mirroring it.

Another step and another, Ellie thinks she’s torn between arousal and feeling like she’s being…hunted.

Maybe both? Can it be both?

“Does it happen a lot?”

Another step, his smirk grows. “Sometimes.”

Her heart thuds, she really wishes she could read him better. She glances down, because she thinks that’s hunger on his face but it’s so much easier to just check to see if—

But he’s stepping up another step and Ellie turns, feeling like if she tries to go backwards any longer she’ll make a fool of herself... or bash her head open falling up the stairs.

Nico stays close to her back the whole way and in the bedroom his arm wraps around her middle, pulling her back into his chest, his hand hot on her skin, nearly lifting her off the ground, as he melds his chest to her spine, his voice hot and rough in her ear.

“Have a shower with me.”

A shower?

Ellie nods, twisting in his arm, up on her tip toes, turning her head to try to kiss him, to climb him, maybe.

She turns, and she goes to wrap her arms around his waist but Nico catches her wrists, holding her still and stepping back.

Ellie’s body goes cold. His grip hard, restrictive, holding her away from him.

She looks over him, the splay of his collar, the open line of his jacket; a hesitation, a doubt, it’s sitting right there in her mouth, but he holds her wrists tight in his hands and when he leans down to kiss her its not soft and slow like the way he parted his shirt to see her naked beneath, but edged with a want that trips into something starving, something like that edge of a wolf’s grin as he edged her up the stairs.

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” he whispers against her mouth, pushing her wrists down and standing straighter.

Ellie licks her lips, swallows, because she trusts him, doesn’t she?

“Then what is it?”

Nico searches her face, his face half lit by moonlight, all shadows and angles and his eyes are far too dark to read.

He pulls in a breath and let sit out, slow, steady, like he’s preparing for something.

“Do you trust me?”

She does, doesn’t she?

“I don’t know,” she whispers, because it’s true. She doesn’t know.

He smiles, a crooked, quick thing that looks heartbreakingly like it’s a little sad and fond all at once.

Nico’s hand cups the side of her neck, his thumb on her jaw, her cheek, curling the mess of her hair behind her ear.

“Don’t freak out.”

Ellie’s body tightens, has that line ever reassured anyone ever?

He walks her into his closet, slow, backwards, holding her eyes the whole way, and when they stand, surrounded by his clothes and that faint smell of cologne and clean clothes… Nico shrugs off his jacket, dropping it on the free-standing dark set of drawers set in the middle of his closet where he keeps his watch, cufflinks, drawers of ties because he’s—

 _Ridiculous_ , she thinks. He’s ridiculous and unreal but here, in the dark, there’s a line of black on his shoulders, a buckle of some sort and Ellie frowns, following it down to his ribs where there’s—

Ellie’s eyes flick back up to his, her heart ticking up.

“It’s just for protection.” His voice is low and even and calming like he’s trying to ease her into reality.

“Why—” she swallows, looking back down over his shoulders, the stark contrast of black against white, the shiny metallic gleam protruding from leather. “Do you always…carry it?”

“No,” he says and reaches for the gun beneath his arm, not even looking at what he’s doing, a practised ease that makes her…something. “Very rarely.”

It’s a quiet noise in the dark, the snap of whatever’s holding the gun in place in the holster beneath his arm, he takes it out, a shiny dark thing that looks so harmless for something so dangerous.

“Have you ever seen one?”

Ellie shakes her head. Then frowns, “Yes, Paul’s grandfather has a collection, but they’re like… all…”

Nico’s mouth twitches a little, humored. “Trophies. Old money, old guns.”

She licks her lips, nervous, eyes on the black thing in his hand as he turns it, handle out. Butt out? She doesn’t know.

“It’s harmless, safety’s on.”

Ellie takes it, slowly; it’s warm, from his hand and body heat, smooth and rough along the grip. Heavier than she thought it would be.

Nico’s hand falls away, Ellie catches the sight of him shrugging off the holster in her peripherals, the gun heavy in her hands as she stares down at it.

“Do you own more?”

In her head, she sees the cabinet of long brown refiles in the Hethridge house up north, the display of them, something that kept them safely _other_ and not meant for use. A monument, just like he said: Trophies.

Less threatening than this black thing in her hand that weighs her arm down more than she expected.

There’s a beat of silence, long enough that she knows the answer without him saying anything.

“A lot?”

“A few.”

“Do you… I mean, do you like, hunt?”

“Animals?” he asks, his brows lifting. “No, I don’t see the appeal of hurting something that can’t fight back.”

Ellie nods, though she isn’t sure if she’s relieved or not by his words. She thinks, at least with those hunting rifles they had a… a _purpose._

She doesn’t really understand _this_.

This gun is…something else.

When she looks back up at him, tearing her eyes away from the slick black thing in her hand, Nico’s watching her, something…heavy and hungry on his face.

Ellie’s suddenly brightly aware of the fact she’s mostly naked and holding a gun; her shirt splayed open, her nipples peaked, her skin pebbled, his eyes on her like she’s...

She holds the gun out, offering it back to him and Nico looks at her steadily, slowly, eyes shifting down to the gun, taking it quietly before setting the gun beside his jacket on the shiny dark surface of the drawers beside them.

When he looks back at her, it looks like he’s waiting for something, but Ellie’s mind is rolling and she doesn’t think there’s any way to make sense of him in the dark, not right now. Not with him looking at her like that. So, she steps up to him and this time when she wraps her arms around his middle, he lets her.

He’s warm and solid and there’s a faint tint of smoke beneath that smell that always lingers on him and she turns her face into his chest, breathing him in. Her body warming at the feeling of the bare skin along her front, from thighs to the peak of her nipples to the heat in her cheeks, brushing against his clothes.

Nico wraps her up in his arms, one hand holding the back of her head, his fingers pushing into her hair, scratching against her scalp.

It feels weird for a moment, to be in nearly the same shirt, despite how differently it fits on her body compared to his.

Intimate, maybe. In a different way than sharing clothes with Mya or her friends.

 “Okay?”

She nods, a short tight thing, her chin bumping his ribs.

“Still want to have a shower with me?”

She nods again, a little smile twitching on her lips.

 

 

                In the bathroom, the floor cold beneath her feet, Nico’s body warm against her front, his hands pushing through her hair, tilting her head back to look up at him.

 “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

 _A thousand things,_ she thinks. All jumbled and piled one over the other. Knotted and confusing and through it all, the only thing that makes sense is…

Him.

Ellie reaches between them, sets her fingers to his shirt buttons, pops one and then another, watching his chest shift as he breathes before glancing up at him in the half-dark. “That I want you to fuck me.”

Nico makes a noise in his chest, a caught breath and then he’s kissing her, leaning down, a hand spreading wide on her lower back as the other tugs her shirt, _his shirt_ , off her body.

 “Off,” she gasps when his teeth scrape her jugular and his hand grips hard on her ass; her fingers working at his pant’s button and zipper, his cock hard beneath her fingers, her palm when she presses it flat, just to feel him beneath her hand.

Nico straightens, and Ellie bites her cheek at the sight of him; the flex of his stomach, the shift of his arms as he yanks his shirt off; the solidness of his body as he hooks his thumb into his pants and his underwear and shoves them down.

His cock hangs heavy and she can’t help the little clench of her insides, arousal, hesitation, a curling lit bit of _fuck no_ because she doesn’t even think her hand is going to close around that thing, but she doesn’t get a chance to really look before Nico’s pulling her into him and walking her backwards into the glassed-in shower and right up against the cold wall.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he growls, kisses hard enough to bruise, to make her lips tingle, that pinked swollen, kissed-fucked feeling.

She does, she thinks, if it’s at all what he does to her.

He breaks away only long enough to reach for the taps, the water spray hitting the floor and splattering against their feet in a lukewarm little spray.

There’s more than enough room in the shower for them to stand and not get wet; a little bench beside her, a shelf of towels just far enough away to stay dry but warmed by the steam as the water gets hotter and spreads fog along the glass.

Nico kisses her, slower, deeper somehow; her arms winding around his shoulders as he leans down, going to her tip-toes to lessen the distance even a little for him. He turns her, moving away from the wall, the spray hitting her back, a soothing, spine-easing heat that feels all the more amazing for the slick path of his hands on her skin.

Up her sides, down her back, over her ass, all heavy and wide-fingered; thumbs stroking over her hips, the flat of her belly, hands curving around her waist.

She slips her hand down his chest, but like he knows what she’s thinking, Nico grabs her hand, bringing it back up to his shoulders.

“Shower first,” he mutters against her lips, a little crooked smile breaking out.

Ellie wants to argue, because he’s touched her more than she’s even _seen_ of him, but— but he’s stroking his hands up along her spine, up the back of her neck, into her hair to tilt her head back, to soak the long length of her hair beneath the spray.

Nico’s kisses slow, his hands pulling through her hair, his nails scrape her scalp and when he reaches for the soap he bought for her, Ellie fights the urge not to melt into him, his hands slicker, lathering it down her spine, across her back, a sudsy trail along her skin.

There’s an impulse in her, as he strokes soapy hands over her skin, as he breaks the kiss to crouch down in front of her, to lather up her legs, her toes, the arch of her foot in a way that breaks a little laugh out of her chest and a smile across his face.

Up her calf, the back of knee, and she braces a hand on his shoulder, her teeth in her cheek, an urge to stop him, to tell him he’s too much, that he touches her like—

Like _something_.

Something that makes her chest hurt and her heart pound.

Something that makes her want to run, a little.

Nico strokes her thighs, his fingers slick, her body tightening, sucking in a little breath as they slip against her sex, knowing that despite the soap, he has to feel that slickness leaking out of her.

He doesn’t say anything, just leans forward, and bends his head to press a kiss to the tense of her stomach, his fingers slipping along her seam, stroking heaver, all soapy and smooth over her clit.

Her nails dig into the heavy weight of his shoulders, pushing a shaky hand through his hair, dark and wet and soft through her fingers.

She twitches a little, as his fingers stroke heavier before slipping back, between her legs, between her cheeks—

Her fingers tighten, Nico kisses her stomach again, palms the globe of her ass with his other hand, and she’s flushed and nervous and feels so much more naked than she ever has in her life as his soapy fingers stroke the tight ring of muscle between her cheeks before slinking back to stroke her clit.

There’s a tremor in her body she can’t quite stop, and it’s not just because she’s leaking and aching for him to touch her more, it’s the way his hands stroke over her skin, the way he stands and slips soapy hands over skin, the way he caresses slippery sudsy hands over her breasts, his thumbs stroking her nipples; a scrape of the blunt edge of his nail, a soothing, sweep of his thumb.

Ellie reaches for the soap, looking up at him in the pale light of the shower, only now realising that they’re showering in the dark. She thinks, maybe that’s why it feels so much more intimate, but she knows really, that’s not it at all.

It’s hard to reach him, and she thinks he’s knows this, a bit of laughter slipping out of him as Ellie stretches up on her tip-toes, his cock burning iron-hard into her stomach as she lathers her hands on the heavy line of his shoulders, watches the soapy-white of the suds trail along his skin and over his muscles. Watches his head tilt back, the shift of his throat as he lets out a long breath, his hand on her hips as he pushes his other hand through his hair, scraping the water off his face when he looks back down at her.

She looks up at him, her lip in her teeth, her chest shifting as she breathes and she can’t read anything on his face. Can’t tell what he’s thinking—

Until she brushes her hand down his chest, feeling every soapy-slip of his muscles beneath her fingers, the hardness of his stomach, the tick in his jaw as her hand sinks lower.

His jaw tightens, a little exhale that shifts his chest. Ellie steps back, just a little, her fingers on the ‘v’ his hips make, that long expanse of skin that’s all taut with muscle, leading down to the thick length of his cock, that bumps into belly. His skin warm, his body hard…so hard she thinks, like he’s a man made of iron and stone and she wasn’t far off when she thought of Pygmalion.

(A man carved out girl-dreams, fantasies spun on warm hands and wanting mouths and a voice that makes her melt and burn up while he tells her just how sweet he thinks she is.)

But he’s all blood and bone and muscle, and Ellie can feel the beat of his pulse beneath her fingers along that tense flex of his abdominals, the twitch of his cock against her belly, can’t help but stare at it, her fingers brushing closer.

She passes it by, a shift-tense of his stomach like a grunt when her fingers skim a vein in his lower abdominals, right along that taut ‘v’ of his hips. His cock bumps her hand, her stomach, and Ellie’s stomach twists at the heat of it, the width of it as she skims her fingers along the length.

It twitches, bumps her stomach and Ellie feels her insides tighten, a slick little rush of arousal leaking out of her as she curls her fingers around it and it’s hot in her fist, her fingers not touching.

Nico’s stomach tenses, abdominals flexing, his cock heavy and throbbing in her palm as she strokes it, her hand slippery from soap, palming the length, dragging the weight of it up, feeling the veins, the silky-iron hard feel—

She can’t help but imagine it on her tongue, the feel of it…the stretch of her mouth—

Ellie sinks to her knees, her hand gripped tight on his thigh as she looks up at him, meeting his eyes, water streaming over his shoulders, his chest, rivulets over his skin…

She strokes his cock, tongue darting out to wet her lips—

“Fuck—” Nico curses and his hand knots in her hair to hold her still. His fingers tighten and Ellie’s lips part, pulling in a breath, strung tight by his grip in her hair and the length of his cock, so close to her mouth.

“Please,” she whines, letting him tug her hair harder, tilt her back more, her spine arched. “I want to.”

But he’s leaning down and hauling her up into his arms, making her gasp, and she can’t help but grind the ache of her cunt against the hard of his stomach where he holds her. Nico looks at her, the water raining down over their shoulders, over their heads, gathering and dripping over them.

Skin on skin, so much of it that it makes her head spin, her pulse pound, her stomach tense, and insides clench for every brush, every press, every caress of bodies and hands and lips.

Ellie squirms, pushing into him and down, her arms around his neck to kiss him; Nico lets her, his arm tight and heavy, nearly too heavy as he carries them out of the bathroom, dripping wet.

She shivers as the cold air outside of the shower pushes over her skin, gasps when Nico all but tosses her on the bed.

She bounces, blinking at him, both of them shiny and glistening in the moonlight. Her cheeks flush, can’t even imagine what he sees when he looks at her, but he makes a noise, a low, strained grunt in his throat and grabs her ankles.

“You like to be manhandled, huh?” he says roughly; a noise breaking out of her when he yanks her back towards him and flips her onto her stomach.

Ellie nods into the duvet, the fabric already soaked from her hair and body. Her fingers knotting into it as he tugs her hips up high, his hands hot and wide and heavy on her ass cheeks. She flushes, feels it spread along her spine, through her body as his thumbs slip between her cheeks—

His hands spread wide, fingertips spanning the curves of her ass, hot-palmed, tilting her hips higher, her ass higher, until—

“Yeah,” he growls, and his hand smacks down on the soft of her ass cheek hard enough to make her jolt, gasp out a curse that twists into a laugh as her knees slide out from under her and he pulls her hips back up and spreads her open. “You fucking do.”

Cries out when she feels the first hot swipe of his tongue across her, all the way from the leak of her core to the base of her spine. His palm hot over the sting of her cheek as his tongue pushes inside of her cunt, licking out the slick of her arousal and dragging up along the spread of her cheeks.

There isn’t a coherent thought, no real words to form, but broken gasps as his fingers tilt her hips higher, leaving her spread open and arched up for him to look at.

“Cutest little ass,” he grits out behind her, and Ellie feels his thumb press against the rim of her, making her body jerk, her gasps sunk into the duvet.

Ellie isn’t sure if it’s the angle, of the hunger or the way he grips her and keeps her arched up despite the ache of her spine, but Nico eats her out from behind and it spills her so close to the edge so quickly her thigh starts to tremble, knees spreading wider to give him more room and tilt her hips a little higher.

He groans, his face pushing into her, his tongue slicking over her clit, up to chase the taste of her and push his tongue back inside of her.

Her thigh trembles and Nico holds her up as the ache builds and burns inside of her. Her body squirming, cunt slipping over his face as she tries to sink down to the bed because it’s too much—

Ellie breathes in hot, damp air, the duvet wet beneath her face, hands nearly tearing at it as he pushes her into an orgasm that sparks through her body like an electric shock and leaves her quaking through it.

She sinks to the bed, his hands still on her ass cheeks, smoothing down her thighs, a rough sound out of his chest as they tremble beneath his hands.

“That’s a fucking sight,” he roughs out, before pushing his hands back up her body, calves to thighs to ass to curving along her waist before leaning down and sinking his teeth into her ass cheek, mouthing up to the curve of her spine, licking, kissing his way up her back along each notch of her spine.

“You know how hard it was to leave you tonight?”

Ellie makes a noise, means to say _how hard,_ but her teeth are buried in the duvet, her thighs trembling as he kneels between her legs, his mouth on her shoulder, the back of her neck.

His cock throbs against the back of her thighs, brushing along the inside, hanging hot and heavy and Ellie pushes her ass up, gasping when his cock slips between her legs, right against the wet of her cunt.

Nico’s hand braces beside her head, his fingers gripping at the fabric, his other hand lands on the back of her neck, a tight grip, a nearly too heavy weight pinning her down.

Ellie rolls her hips back, his cock slipping against her, a teasing, terrible glide that makes her chest crack with a desperate whine. Can’t close her legs because of his knees, can’t push down because of his grip, can’t do anything but feel the slip of him against the leaking, desperate mess of her sex—

“How could I fuck anyone else, baby, look at you.”

She rubs, squirms, his cock hot and hard and she swears she’s strung tight enough she thinks she could come just from that light little brush of his cock slipping over her, against her sex, brushing her clit on every arching roll of her body.

It’s frustrating, too hot, her breath caught in the duvet, her head turning to gasp, to beg—

“ _Please_ —”

His hand clenches, white knuckled beside her head, a noise in his chest, all rough and low before: “Please what?”

“Fuck me,” she whines, her hands twisting in the covers, his cock getting wetter on every roll of her hips, making the slip too easy, too light, her frustration building and burning.

His hand leaves her neck, trailing down her spine, slipping between her ass cheeks and over the soaking wet of her sex. She pushes her hips up, his fingers slip over her clit, like he’s gathering all her wetness and then—

He plunges two fingers inside of her, all slick and easy and _deep._

Ellie gasps, voice cracking as he angles them down, rubbing at the nerves inside of her, steady, focused, merciless.

“Like this?” he grits out, his voice sandpaper on her skin. “Is this what you want?”

She bites the duvet, her cries climbing out of her anyway, hips tilting up, one hand gripping onto his wrist beside her head, nails leaving red marks along his skin.

It’s not what she wants, not really, but he twists a third finger in and the stretch of it, the ache of it— her thoughts burn up like a crackle of lightning across the sky as her body fissures open. She’s going to come she knows it, any second, it burns in her hips, weighs her down even as her ass pushes up and she can feel the drip of it, the slick of it, leaking out of her, soaking the bed beneath her, his hand, her thighs… that wet, slippery noise nearly as loud as her desperate gasping cries, teeth sunk into the duvet so hard she feels like she’s going to crack a tooth.

“Ellie—” he growls. “Say it.”

 _Say what?_ She thinks, _say what—_ she can’t focus on anything but his fingers, his cock on her thigh, that wet sound in the quiet beneath their breathing and her too loud moans and gasps and whines—

But then his fingers slip away and he’s rolling her onto her back, his mouth hitting hers hard and rough as he knocks her thigh wide to shove his fingers back inside of her.

 Curling them up, his thumb rubbing her clit, his cock so fucking close to the leaking core of her that she whines into his mouth, scrambling at his shoulders. Chest to chest, her mouth breaking away because she can’t kiss him, not when her body’s tensing, squirming, toes curling, hand curling in his hair—

“Daddy,” she sobs, cracks her chest, his lips sliding along her cheek, his breath hot and rough and he says something guttural, something groaning, something just as torn out of him as it is out of her, but she’s breaking open and there’s a rush, an electric, sparking current and it wipes reality away and leaves her shaking, sparking, too bright.

Chest to chest, Nico’s skin burns against hers, his fingers pushing into her hair as he lowers onto his forearm. Her thighs shake around him and distantly she’s aware of his voice, a roll of words and vibrations and sounds into her ear, his breath heavier, his knuckles bumping her inner thigh—

But the blunt edge of her nails are sunk deep in his shoulders, her heart pounding, her body one frayed, over exposed nerve and she feels the heat, the wet splatter of his come on her belly before she can find her mind and body again.

He sinks down against her, a heavy weight along her body, stretched out beside her.

In the half-dark, the city a blurry light around them, Nico’s more shadow than man, but his weight, the beat of his heart, the slip of sweat and sex and come sticky between them, his lips brush hers, their breath hot, their lips hot, their skin stuck together… it’s sloppy and breathless and Ellie’s heart trips in her chest when he cups her cheek, his thumb stroking along her skin as he kisses her.

An ache, sudden and deep and devastating.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

                Ellie wakes to sunlight and an empty bed.

Naked, to the smell of coffee and grease. Her stomach grumbling loudly beneath the twist of the sheets.

She rolls over, pushing her hand out across the mattress, the sheets cool to the touch. She sighs, pushing her face into his pillow, chasing the lingering smell of him in the fibres.

 _Again_ , she thinks.

The sun sings across the room in that brilliant fall-gold colour and Ellie stretches, head tilting back, the glass walls full of blue and cloudless sky.

The night before rolls behind her eyelids, lingering in the ache still sitting between her hips, like the hunger of her stomach is just a by product of that constantly needy bit inside of her that’s all for him.

 _God_ , she thinks, that was fucking _amazing._

Even without the actual _fucking._

She presses her thighs together, thinking about his mouth, his fingers, the thickness of his cock… her body warms, toes curling a little as that little bit of hunger inside of her grows into something achy and wanting.

But, there’s a clink, clatter of a noise downstairs, and her stomach grumbles at the smell; Ellie stretches, can’t quite stop the smile growing on her face and rolls out of bed.

 

 

                After a shower, Ellie brushes her teeth and, in the mirror, looks her fill at the hickeys littered on her neck and body; her arousal a near constant thing, full up on fantasies. She brushes a hand over her breast, feeling her nipple peak beneath her fingers, a sensitive spot on the inside curve, a reddened mark from Nico’s mouth. Biting her lip, she thinks about his lips and his mouth and how fucking talented his tongue is. She thinks, if he gets her that wet every time, she can take his cock, no matter how thick it is.

Can’t help but imagine it as she dries her hair, his voice heavy, _that’s it, baby, you’re doing so good for me—_

She dresses quickly, a long sleeve white shirt and overalls, braiding her damp hair quickly to keep it out of the way.

Downstairs, the grease and coffee smell is stronger, making her stomach growl and her mouth water.

Nico dumps eggs into a hot pan and the sizzle sound of it crackles through the loft.

He turns to look at her, as if he could feel her watching him, a smile crooking up the side of his mouth as he turns to face her completely, his eyes sinking over her.

And then he shakes his head, a low laugh that has Ellie stopping short from stepping up to him.

“What?” she asks, as he looks her over, then looks away, his hand rubbing over his jaw, his smile widening, another short laugh tumbling out. “What’s so funny?”

“You’re wearing _overalls,_ ” he grins, looks like he’s trying not to laugh and Ellie’s cheeks burn.

“They’re comfortable _,_ ” she defends, looking down at herself. “They’re making a come back—”

He makes a noise in his chest, and then Ellie finds herself on the counter beside the stove top, his hands on her hips, his mouth on hers.

“Fuckin’ _overalls_ ,” he mutters between another kiss, his hands pushing up her sides to hook beneath the straps of her overalls.

He kisses her again, holding her tight to him by his grip on the straps, before his smile breaks the kiss and he’s pressing his forehead against her shoulder, a rough laugh in his throat.

“How was I supposed to say no to you, huh?”

Ellie has no idea what to say to that, so she pushes her fingers up into his hair, likes how thick and dark it is, just long enough to grab, to sink her hands into, the shorter hairs on the nape of his neck, the heat of his skin and hard slope to his shoulders beneath the open v of his collar.

Nico breathes into her shoulder, his body warm and the kitchen full of smells and that early morning feeling of a weekend at home. Coming out of the cold, maybe. A moment she’s had a thousand times growing up with her mother and grandma, smiles and breakfasts and coffee-tipped kisses, but feels so… so fucking different now.

Her stomach tightens, twists, an ache inside of her chest that makes her nervous and excited and fucking terrified all at once.

His hands fall to her hips, his breath warm and steady on her clavicle; feels the beat of his pulse beneath her fingers on the back of his neck and it’s faster than it normally is. Sinks her palm over his shoulder to press against his chest, the beat of his heart thumping, two-timing beneath her hand.

 _What’s wrong_ is on her tongue but Nico turns his head, his lips to her neck, her jaw, her cheek—

There’s a knock on the door and it breaks the moment wide, cracks through the loft like a hammer hitting a gavel.

Nico steps away, dragging a hand through his hair, letting a little curse out as they both realise the eggs are nearly burnt in the pan.

“I called for some things,” Nico says as he scrapes the eggs out of the pan and onto a plate. “It’s just a delivery.”

Ellie slips off the counter, crossing the few paces it takes from kitchen to front door; turning the deadbolt, the latch, pulling it open and expecting someone in a uniform.

“You are way too cute to be related to be related to that gigantic bastard.”

Ellie blinks, looking up at the man munching on a piece of toast, a plate in his hand the foil peeled back. He’s tall, dark-haired, wearing a leather jacket and dark blue jeans cuffed over heavy boots. He leans against the doorframe, mouth opening around another large bite as he looks Ellie over, his eyes narrowed as he tilts his head.

“Way too cute.”

Nico’s at her back before she can say anything, his hand above hers on the door, pulling it open more, Ellie feels his other hand hook into the back of her overalls, tugging her back and into him. She stumbles a little, but Nico pulls her back and away from the doorway.

“Where’d you roll out of, a Greaser convention?”

“Your mom’s bed,” the other man grins, his cheek full of toast.

“Your mom too, asshole,” Nico sighs, though he doesn’t sound as irritated as he does exasperated, like they’ve both said these things before.

Ellie looks between them, the resemblance clicking in. The dark hair, the jaw line, the shape of them, even; though the man in the doorway is like a slightly smaller, younger version of the man at Ellie’s back.

“This her then?” he asks, motioning with his stolen toast. “Cause she’s—”

“Ellie,” Nico interrupts. “Matty. Matty, Ellie.

Matty stuffs the end of the toast in his mouth, brushing the crumbs off his hand on his shirt and holding it out to Ellie. “Matteo,” he muffles out, his cheek full again.

Ellie looks up at Nico, his hand still on the back of her overalls. “My brother,” he drawls.

She takes his hand, his fingers a little rough closing around hers, hot from holding the toast and, as he shakes her hand, she catches a little dark peek of ink beneath the sleeve of his jacket.

“Guess it’s Uncle Matteo, though, huh?”

“You don’t have to call him that,” Nico says behind her before tugging her again and stepping away. Ellie hesitates for only a second before following him, glancing back as Matteo trails in after them. He winks at her, his smile spreading despite the bulge of toast in his cheek.

There’s a fresh batch of eggs in the pan and Matteo sets the tray of toast down on the island. Peeling of the foil wrapping.

“Why am I not surprised you didn’t have bread,” he says as he settles into the stool at the edge of the island counter, leaning forward to snatch a piece of bacon. “He’s got a thing,” he smirks at Ellie, chewing as he talks. “Carbs or some shit.”

Nico sighs, turning the eggs in the pan before turning to face them. “You got a reason for bein’ here, Matty, or are you just hungry?”

“Both,” Matteo grins, stealing another piece of bacon and stuffing it into his mouth before wiping his hand off on his pants and pulling a black folder out from beneath the tray of toast.

Nico looks at it, and there’s a moment of hesitation before he reaches for it, dropping it on the counter next to the stove and continuing on like it was nothing. He splits the eggs in the pan, putting half on two plates before setting them down in front of Ellie and one in front of his brother; turning back to dump another, waiting bowl of eggs into the pan.

Matteo grins and reaches for the bacon and sausage, sliding some on his plate and then offering it to Ellie.

Ellie glances at the clock hanging on the wall behind them, the arms pointing to nine and nearly twenty. It’s not as late as she thought it was, but she glances to the left, where she knows Mya is sleeping.

She tells herself not to worry, that Mya has always been a late sleeper when she’s given the option, that she’s slept well into the afternoon, especially after nights out.

But still, she can’t help being nervous.

“I’ve got some men on—” Matteo starts.

“Eat your breakfast,” Nico interrupts, something in his voice Ellie’s never really heard. Or maybe has, like that voice in the car the second time the met, when he wouldn’t take her back to campus, when he told her, unequivocally, _we’re going to have a nice long talk about all of this._

The eggs sizzle, Matteo rolls his eyes and looks at Ellie, his smile growing around a bite of sausage as he chews. Ellie isn’t sure if she feels like he’s trying to figure her out or if he’s just trying to get used to the _idea_ of her.

The prodigal daughter, seventeen years missing.

“So, how you like being a Cordova now?”

“I’m not,” Ellie says, pushing her fork into her eggs, all fluffy and yellow. She’s kinda impressed that Nico can cook as well as he can, she isn’t going to lie. “I mean…not really. I mean technically, I guess I am… but—”

Nico’s shoulders shift as he scrapes a fork through the eggs in the pan, not looking at her but she can tell he’s listening.

“I mean I’m an Evans. Still.”

Matteo looks like he’s trying not to laugh, “An Evans, huh. What’s an Evans?”

“What?”

“Where you from?”

“New Rochelle?” Ellie blinks, her nose scrunching a little, confused. He looks at her, his smile growing before he laughs.

“Nah, girl,” Matteo laughs. “I mean where are you _from?_ Your family.”

Ellie blinks, her fork paused on the way to her mouth, frowning.

“It’s America, everyone is from somewhere else.”

“I…don’t know,” Ellie frowns. “My grandma never really said much about her parents, I think they were American too.”

“British,” Nico interrupts turning back to the table to dump eggs onto his plate before setting the pan into the sink and settling onto a stool. “Evans is a British surname.”

“How do you know that?” Ellie asks, even as she thinks back to her grandma’s penchant for tea, her own like of it, the spoons they had growing up with the Queen’s face on the little handle.

“Told you, sweetheart, you’re not the only one who can work Google.”

Matteo snorts, stuffing sausage into his mouth, muttering, _Google, sure._

“Ma wants to know if you’re coming home this weekend or not,” he says looking at Nico, then Ellie. “Think she’s getting impatient about being deprived of a granddaughter.”

“Not. I already told her we had plans. She send you?”

“Nah, just wanted to drop that file off and saw a poor errand boy in the elevator running the big bad some fucking _toast_. How couldn’t I come drop in?” he grins, winking at Ellie.

_Big bad?_

“I told him I needed _bread_ for toast, not fucking toast,” Nico shrugs. “And seeing as you weren’t supposed to be here…”

“I’m feeling a little unwelcome,” Matteo grins, reaching for the coffee sitting in the middle of the table. Meant for Mya, she would guess. Though she isn’t sure how he knows she drinks it. “Seeing as I got my ass out of the bed of a fucking smokin’ hot brunette with like—” he lifts his hands to his chest, Ellie snorts at the meaning. “To come give you those pho—”

 “That’s enough,” Nico warns. “Eat you’re fucking breakfast, Matty.”

The loft goes quiet. Ellie tries to enjoy the salty grease of the bacon, the softness of the eggs, stealing glances at Nico as he eats like there wasn’t a conversation that made absolutely no sense to Ellie. Except for the boob reference, she got that much.

But, it’s too quiet, she’s too aware of Mya sleeping in the other room, of his _brother_ , her _uncle_ sitting here knowing who she is to the man they’re _both_ related to.

It’s too quiet, too much of an obscenely mundane moment—

 _He gets around,_ Nico had said about his brother, and Ellie can guess it wasn’t much of an exaggeration.

“Did you get her number at least?” Ellie asks swallowing a piece of sausage.

Matteo looks at her, his grin sharp before pushing up the jacket of his sleeve. There underneath the start of what looks like a sleeve tattoo, a number scrawled, the name unreadable at her angle.

Nico snorts. “Ask him if he’s actually going to call it, though.”

Ellie looks at Nico’s brother as he leans back on the stool, holding the counter with one hand as he tilts back. He doesn’t have dimples, she realises, just that same broad jaw, a little sharper for the leanness of his body, more whetted than her fath— then Nico’s bulk. “I could, you know.”

“You could. But you won’t. What’s her name?”

Matteo hesitates, his smile flickering before he laughs and tilts his hand to look at it. “Cara? No, Lara. Wait, maybe that’s an S.”

Ellie laughs, reaching for her glass, looking between them as she drinks. Nico’s finishing the last of his eggs when he glances at her and smiles crookedly. “Welcome to the family, huh?”

“We’re great, Ellie, don’t even listen to him.”

“You drop over a lot?” Ellie asks, curious and also a little…concerned… what if she hadn’t gotten _dressed_?

“Oh, we all got put on notice,” Matteo smirks, looking at Ellie and then nodding towards Nico. “Big Bad there read us the riot act about _his space._ ”

“I don’t think calling before showing up is all that difficult.”

“He’s sweet on you, you know,” Matteo teases and Ellie tries not to react, tries not to glance at Nico because he can’t possibly mean what she thinks he does. He can’t actually _know anything_. “He’s all about how it’s not just _him_ now, so we have to be _nice._ ”

“And look how well that worked out. What’s it been four days?”

Ellie’s too busy trying not to blush to say anything else, thinking about anything other than Nico telling his family that Ellie’s… a part of his life?

_I want to keep you for as long as you’ll fucking let me._

“You’re _blushing,_ ” Matteo laughs, his stool dropping with a thud. “Are you positive you’re his, I’m telling you, you’re way too cute to belong to that fucker—”

“Shut up,” Ellie groans, dropping her face in her hands. “It’s natural, everyone does it.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone actually fuckin’ blush before—”

“Alright,” Nico interrupts, pushing his stool back to stand, taking his dish to the sink. “You done eating my food? Ellie and I have plans today.”

_They do?_

Matteo laughs, pushing back from the island, grabbing another sausage and taking a too large bite. “Yeah, yeah. I’m out. Gonna go wash the puss—”

“ _Matteo_.”

“See ya, girl.” Matteo winks, backing up towards the door. “Let me know if you get bored with your old man, I’ll let you have fun. That’s what uncles are for, right?”

He turns to leave, a half-muttered: _wait, what do uncles even do?_ floating back to them before the door shuts with a thud.

The loft goes quiet, Nico sighs, scratching the stubble on his jaw before pushing his hand through his hair. “He’s…an acquired taste.”

“You don’t seem much alike?” Ellie hedges, fiddling with her knife.

“He’s a lot younger than me, we grew up in… different times.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty-five,” Nico states and then tilts his head a little. “Now come here and give me a kiss before your friend wakes up.”

Ellie grins, slipping off her stool to close the distance between them. “She won’t be up till like…noon.”

“Even better,” he smiles and leans forward to tug at the strap of her overalls. “Now come here and let me grope you.”

Ellie laughs into the first slip of their lips.

 

 

 

                Nico’s dumping Mya’s eggs onto a plate just as the other girl is shuffling into the room, Ellie’s cheeks still a little flushed and Nico’s shirt a button away from being indecently open. His hair more than a little mussed too, Ellie notices with a little smile as she reheats her tea in the microwave that doesn’t look much like a microwave at all, and takes Nico’s laughing instructions to figure out, _I thought the younger generation was supposed to show the older one technology?_

“Mornin’,” Mya yawns, her hair flattened on one side, a smudged shadow of makeup beneath her eyes as she settles onto a stool and reaches for the toast, already buttering a piece, looking much more awake then she did seconds ago.

“Thanks for letting me crash here,” she says around a mouthful. “The bed’s fucking great. Though you could use some blinds in there. S’awful bright.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Nico says as he loads the dishwasher with cutlery Ellie hands him before shutting it, leaving it off until Mya’s done eating.

Ellie wanders back to her stool, grabbing her tea on the way, settling near Mya as Nico scrubs at the egg pan, sleeves rolled, looking…Ellie wonders if he has any idea how ridiculous and unreal he is. He has to, right?

He really shouldn’t be allowed to look the way he does, act the way he does, treat her the way he does and expect her not to…

She’s so fucked.

_I want to keep you for as long as you’ll fucking let me._

_Yeah,_ she thinks. _Same_.

Mya breathes in the coffee steam as she holds the mug in her hands, her eyes closing and then popping open.

“Oh!” she exclaims in a harsh whisper, her hand smacking out and hitting Ellie’s arm. “So did you do it? Did you, you know, pop the che—”

Ellie sucks in a breath, her eyes darting to Nico; his back tensing as he goes still for a second, a heartbeat, just long enough that Ellie knows he heard before the sink comes on and he’s washing his hands.

“Oh, _shit_ —” Mya’s looking between them, her voice lower, more a whisper but still too harsh. “Did he not—"

But Ellie’s eyes are stuck on him as he turns, grabbing the folder off the counter and heading down the hall towards his office without another word.

“I’m so sorry,” Mya blurts, her fingers covering her mouth. “I thought…I really thought—”

“It’s okay,” Ellie mutters on reflex, her eyes still on the tightness of his shoulders as he disappears out of sight.

“He really had no idea you were—”

His office door shuts with barely a sound, not slammed, no thud of wood, no anger, no _reaction,_ just…

Ellie swallows, her heart pumping too fast inside of her, the tension in his back and shoulders and the way he didn’t even look back at her—

“Are,” she states, catching Mya’s confused frown. “We didn’t…My _cherry_ is still very much intact.”

Mya’s mouth opens, closes, her face shifting into something torn between apology and surprised disbelief.

“Why didn’t you tell him?”

 “I just…I figured he knew?” she winces, because that sounds awful. “And because it shouldn’t matter, right? It’s all made up anyway…” she flounders, another breath, her chest too tight. Nico walking away from her hurts more than it has any right to. “it’s just _sex._ I’ve done shit before.”

“Yeah…but, it’s…it’s _different_.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Ellie bites out, pushes up out of her chair, but Mya’s hand snaps out.

“Maybe you should give him a minute?”

“Why? What does it matter”

“El…” Mya says, her face shifting into something nearly pitying. “If it really wasn’t a big deal, why didn’t you tell him?”

“Because—” _because it makes me feel stupid and young and inexperienced and I just wanted—_

_I just—_

“Because it shouldn’t matter if I’ve fucked someone or not!”

“I’m sorry,” Mya whispers, pushing her lips together, her dark eyes wide. “I really thought you would have told him, I wouldn’t have said anything if— I just thought—”

Ellie shakes her head. “I know, I know you didn’t mean… I just—I didn’t want him to have another reason to not…”

“Yeah,” Mya says softly. “I get it.”

Ellie looks down the hallway, pulling in a breath and holding it in. “Is it that big a deal?”

Mya’s quiet for too long, Ellie’s heart sinks a little, her stomach twisting. “I think you should have told him.”

“But—”

“I’d want to know,” she says, her hand coming off Ellie’s arm. “It’s just like… It’s your first time, you know? It’s... different. Not like, _special_ or some shit, but…it’s just _different_.”

Ellie pushes away from the table, a noise in her throat that’s all frustration. “I need to talk to him.”

Mya bites her lip, looking up at her. “I’m really sorry, El.”

Ellie nods, “It’s okay…I’m just…” _Yeah,_ they both say with a weak smile.

“Good luck.”

 

 

 

                Ellie doesn’t bother knocking, pushing into his office and finding Nico at his desk, his eyes flicking to her as she moves towards him, her arms crossed over her chest and her heartbeat an unsteady thing inside of her.

“Virginity is a social construct.”

Nico looks at her, his head turning a little as he drags a hand through his hair and she swears, she swears his mouth twitches before looking back at her.

“Is that right?”

Ellie bites her cheek, leaning her hip on the side of his desk and trying not to just blurt it all out.

“Yes,” she bites out, curling her fingers over the side of the denim front of her overalls.

Nico doesn’t say anything, his face empty and waiting.

“Your dick isn’t that special!” she blurts, wanting to shut up but she _can’t_. “It’s just a penis!”

 “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, his hand rubbing over his jaw, and she swears his mouth twitches again.

“Just because I’ve never had a dick inside of me—” her face twists, her hands nervous, one swinging out in some motion she isn’t even sure means anything.  “I’ve done like everything else, I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“You’ve done everything else,” Nico mumbles, like it’s more to himself than to her, leaning back in his chair looking some how completely indifferent and a moment from actually being angry.

“I’ve sucked dick and been eaten out and—”

“Been fingered?”

Ellie bites her tongue. “Yes.”

“By me?”

She hesitates a heartbeat too long, she knows. “No.”

Nico stares her down, and it feels like he’s peeling her open, like he can read her like braille and she doesn’t understand how he does it.

“You know, you made this noise when I shoved my fingers inside of you last night. _Shoved_ them, Ellie, because I had no idea you hadn’t done anything before and I thought you tensed up, I _felt_ you tense up, but you took them so well that I ignored it.”

“I’ve been fingered before,” she says, but can’t meet his eyes as she says it.

“Yeah,” he huffs. “By who? Yourself?”

Ellie clenches her teeth, looking away.

“Were you going to tell me?”

“Virginity is bullshit,” Ellie spits, her jaw tight. “What I’ve done and who I’ve done it with, even if it was just myself doesn’t fucking matter—”

“I could have hurt you,” Nico states, and it’s so low and controlled she wonders how angry he actually is.

“You didn’t!” Ellie cries, stepping closer to him. “You didn’t hurt me, it’s not like you fuc—”

“I almost did. I wanted to.” He stares her down like he’s making sure she hears him. “I thought about it and the only reason, the _only_ fucking reason I didn’t, Ellie, was because it was _fucking_ _dark_ and I wanted to _see it._ ”

Ellie’s breath catches, a tremble in her limbs as they look at each other.

 _God,_ she thinks, his honesties are _brutal._

“Why are you so mad?” Ellie breathes out, crossing her arms and hugging herself a little, a part of her knowing that she probably should have told him. “You wouldn’t have hurt me. It’s not like there’s an actual cherry to _pop_.”

“I don’t need a sex-ed lesson, Ellie. I understand the physical act, thank you.”

Ellie looks away, a burn in her throat that embarrasses her. “Would it be better if I wasn’t a virgin? Because I can fix that pretty fucking easily, I know a few guys—”

Nico pushes up from his desk, his jaw tense, lip curling. “ _Don’t_.”

Ellie bites her tongue, chin tilting up to stare him down. “Then _fuck you._ Because I’ve thought about it, I’ve gotten _off_ to it. I want it to be _you—_ It’s just _sex_.”

“It’s not just _sex_ , for fuck’s sake and you know it! Its not about you having a fucking _hymen_ or not. It’s not about you being untouched and pure or whatever bullshit you think it is—”

“I don’t need you to be careful with me. I don’t _want_ you to be careful with me,” she says in a rush, her face twisting with desperation. “I just want _you.”_

“You shouldn’t,” he warns, his eyes dark. “You need to be sure, Ellie, you need to be fucking sure. Because I will take everything you fucking give me.”

Nico pushes away from his desk, closes the distance between them, his face dark…

There’s a little itch inside of her, a little trill of a feeling, that she doesn’t know him nearly well enough as he crowds her against the desk, bracing his arms on either side of her to lean down, face to face.

There’s more to him, more to his life…more angles and shadows to him than she thinks she can even understand yet.

“I am not a nice man. I am selfish and jealous and cruel and there’s a very real part of me that’s fucking _thrilled_ that I might be the only one to fuck you.”

 _Might be._ She isn’t sure what to do with those words. Isn’t sure if she should take them as _hopeful_ or resigned, realistic... seeing an end to whatever it is between them like some sure thing.

“You’re nice to me,” she says quietly, softly. “Isn’t that what matters?”

Nico huffs, a breath of disbelief. “Is it? Am I nice to you?”

Ellie doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Is it _nice_ to fuck a seventeen year old girl?” he asks, his face dark, his voice deadly. “Is it nice to fuck my daughter? Is it nice to hate your mother for keeping you from me, all while being fucking thankful she did because I wouldn’t— because I wouldn’t get to fuck you if I had known you? Is it nice that I’m fucking  _glad_ I wasn’t ever really your father?”

Ellie’s breath catches, jagged like it’s being torn on her rib.

"Is it nice, Ellie, the things I'm willing to do to keep you? To fucking _touch_ you?" he asks, his eyes burning into hers.“Is any of that _nice?_ ”

It's impossible to look away from him, her heart thudding, all the things laid between them, all those tangles and knots and truths caught between the small, hot breath between their lips.

“No,” she exhales, but tilts her face up to catch his mouth.

She’s not good with words, hasn’t ever been good at getting her thoughts and wants and wishes out of her mouth… so she kisses him, the way he’s kissed her before, hands on his cheeks, feeling the stubble along his jaw, holds him still with her palms and her lips and tries to tell him, in all the ways she can’t _say_ , that it might not be nice—

It might not be nice and it might not be okay… but it’s _good._

_It’s good._

She feels the tense of him soften, ease, like he really is a statue she brings to life, breathes into him, chases hardness and coldness and sweeps it out of his mouth on every stroke of their tongues, every slip of their lips… lets him pull her closer, his hands on her thighs, lifting her, setting her on the desk to weigh her down, to lay her flat, to kiss her harder and deeper like he’s trying to peel out more warmth and life and—

Ellie curls her hand in the short hairs at the nape of his neck, their chests pressed together and even through clothes there’s no missing the erratic beat of their hearts.

The kisses stay slow, stay too deep and too warm and too much to handle, too much to not break away from, to breathe against his cheek as he tucks his head into her neck.

Eventually, he leans back, scrubbing a hand through his hair and looking down at her while she sits up to lean back on her arms, keeping Nico between the spread of her legs.

Her hand slips when she leans back, sliding across the desk before she catches herself, looking back to see the folder that his brother had brought earlier beneath her hand, splayed open.

It’s photos, she realises, and is about to turn back to Nico, couldn’t care less about the folder, not right now—

But, she frowns, looking back as something catches her eye just before she turns away.

It’s a man, she realises, and uses her pinky to slide the photo a little more out of the folder and she knows—

“Ellie,” Nico’s voice breaks through her distraction, she jolts a little, hand coming off the photos, because there’s more than one in the folder. “Have you seen that man before?”

Nico looks at her, at the photos, back to her, the dark of his brows sinking together.

Ellie looks back at the black and white photos, the man in a dark coat, cigarette smoke obscuring part of his face, half a grin she doesn’t think she’s seen, not like that. She slides the top picture out a little more and the one beneath it has the man leaning against a black car, a phone against his ear, his hair light in the greyscale of the building around him.

“That’s…Max.”

 

 

 

 


	14. Part One, XIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii guys...sorry this is late, 'tis the season and all. (for family and endless things you need to do...)  
> But hey, the chapter was so big I split it into two, so you get two for one, so...yay?
> 
> Anyway, I've decided I'm officially splitting this fic into part one and part two and an epilogue, so next chapter is the last of part one and we're heading into major plot territory for part two! Also we'll be doing split POV with Ellie and Nico, so that's exciting? Right?
> 
> Hopefully you all enjoy the new chapters, let me know what you think!

 

* * *

XIV

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

          “Ellie,” Nico’s voice breaks through her thoughts, pulling her back into the moment. “Do you know that man?”

“That’s… _Max_.”

She blinks, shifts another photo, a license plate, a shiny, black car; another photo, Max standing with two other men, a tattoo edging out of his collar, a cloud of smoke seeping from his mouth...

He never even smelled like smoke, she thinks.

“Why do you have pictures of _Max_?” she asks, frowning, picking the next one up, a phone to his ear, that laptop bag she’s seen so many times hooked over his shoulder, resting against his thigh as he walks down the street.

“ _Max_?” Nico bites out and his hand is on her chin, hard, tearing her eyes away from the man in the photo. “Who the fuck is Max?”

“He comes into the Roastery—” Ellie starts, watches something dark cross Nico’s face, a shift of his jaw, a tensing of his body.

He steps away from her, pulling out his cell phone, it rings once, a distant, dull sound in the quiet; Ellie realises she’s gripping the photo and looks back down at it.

_How,_ she thinks, _can someone look so different and yet, so familiar all at once?_ Because it _looks_ like Max, but… but it _doesn’t_ all at once.

He says something into the phone, a rush of smooth sounds that are definitely not English before he takes the photo out of her hand and tosses it back onto the desk.

“How long has he been going there?”

Ellie blinks, trying to understand whatever dark shadow is lingering on Nico’s face. “Why do you have photos of him?”

“ _Ellie_ ,” he snaps. “How long?”

“I don’t— A few weeks? Maybe, there was this school trip to the MET and I met him—”

“I thought you said the Roastery?”

“…I met him on the trip, he was just in the same gallery I was, and then…he came into the Roastery a few days later—” It sounds worse out loud, she realises, meeting a man at a museum, having him show up later at her workplace.

She watches the twist of emotions on Nico’s face before he shuts them down. A flash of anger, disbelief, something dark and dangerous… something she doesn’t have a name for, not really, something that reminds her how little she really knows him.

His jaw shifts, like he gritting his teeth. “And you didn’t think that was a little too fucking _coincidental_?”

“He said he was new to the area, apartment hunting… the Roastery isn’t really that far away from—”

“You _talk_ to him? Jesus Christ, Ellie.”

Ellie’s face twists, mind reeling, because why _wouldn’t she?_

“Why wouldn’t I? He’s a fucking customer at a coffee shop who seemed perfectly fucking nice! I mean, Jesus, he showed me apartments he was looking at, asked me about school—”

“You need to listen to me. Right now.” Nico steps closer, holding her still in his hold and his gaze. “That man is dangerous. You need to stay away from him.”

“But—” Ellie starts, looks at the photos. At the smoke, the grin, the man who _looks_ like a man she thought she knew. “But he’s…he’s _nice._ ”

“I think we’ve established that you have a very skewed perception of _nice_ ,” Nico scoffs, then stops, caught by the look on Ellie’s face.

He sighs, slipping his hand from her arm to her neck, cupping the curve of it in his palm, his thumb stroking her jaw. “You’re so young.”

The room goes quiet, Nico’s hand stays warm on her neck. Ellie searches his face, a denial in her throat that she can’t give voice to because she may not be a child, but she is _young_ and to claim otherwise is nothing more than a childish need to defend herself.

So she won’t say it, won’t deny it. _I’m not a child,_ never convinced anybody.

Ellie turns her head, Nico watching her as she steps away, hugging herself, brows sinking together as her thoughts whirl and twist and scream at her for all the things she _doesn’t know_.

For the reality of seventeen years of life lived between them, seventeen years more he has on her.

It sits inside of her, that she wants him, wants him more than reason or logic or…or fucking _morality_ , she wants him more than she should…

And she doesn’t even know him. Not really.

“Why do you have those photos?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Then _uncomplicate_ it,” Ellie grits out. “I see him all the time, he’s never even _hit_ _on_ _me,_ he’s never been anything but friendly—”

Nico’s tongue scrapes his teeth, an angry, violent look that she’s never seen as he turns to his desk, flipping the laptop screen up and tapping the trackpad before turning the screen to face her.

It’s a mugshot, the man in the photo, decades younger, but it’s the same person, that much is clear.

“This was taken twenty years ago. It’s the only official arrest made, but believe me, Ellie, it’s not for lack of reason.”

“What— who is he?”

“Maksim Zhurov.”

“Maksim,” she repeats, floundering. “So…Max…”

Ellie tries to remember if she ever wrote his name on a cup, if there was ever any indication that she got his name wrong…but, she can’t think of any time that he cared that his name was written Max and not… _Maks_.

“Who is he?”

“It’s complicated.”

Ellie glares at him, her body tense, waiting for more.

Nico meets her glare, his shoulders shifting as he tucks his hands in his pockets, leaning back against his desk. Ellie can’t help but look at Max—

Maksim’s photo again.

“The less you know the better.”

“ _What_?” Ellie spits, her brows climbing her forehead. “Yeah. _No_.”

“Ellie—” Nico starts, cuts off, looks away from her, his jaw ticking. “The safest way to play this is if you act like you have no idea who he is. And the less you know about him, the easier that will be for you to do.”

Ellie blinks. Mouth opening, closing, shakes her head. “ _What_?”

Nico pulls in a breath and then lets it out, standing straighter, a shift of fabric, composure, that man in the club, the bar, the one who was unknown and tracking her down…not the man she’s gotten to know.

“Zhurov is dangerous. But if there’s a chance that this is a fucking coincidence, the best move is that he never knows who you are. And if it’s not a coincidence, the best move is that he has no idea you know who he is. You understand?”

“Not even a fucking little,” Ellie huffs. “What the fuck?”

“I deal with a lot of people, Ellie, a lot of companies, a lot of _men_. Not all of them are good people.”

Ellie isn’t sure what to do with that information. He owns _clubs._ Property, maybe? What kind of business…

“But why is he here?”

“I don’t know yet. Only that I don’t think he knows I’m aware he’s here.”

“But…if you knew he was here, why didn’t you know he was at the Roastery?”

Nico’s jaw ticks and he looks away like he’s holding himself still, before he looks back at her. “Because of me,” he grits out. “Because I’ve been trying to keep you fucking hidden and the people I’ve had on Zhurov have been told to stay away from your campus.”

Ellie falls silent, taking that in, that he’s got— _people. People?_ Watching some dangerous man that Ellie’s been…friendly with for weeks now.

“Why would he…I mean, why would he talk to me?”

“Because you’re mine,” Nico answers, easily, factually, chest deep like it’s the truest thing he’s ever said.

Ellie stares at him, searching his face. “Who are you?”

Nico stares her down, his jaw tight and shoulders tense before he’s shutting the laptop on his desk and heading towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Ellie’s voice pitches louder than she means it to, reaching for his arm. “Nico!”

Nico stops, and his name is a caught inhale in her throat as his mouth hits hers and her back is against the wall beside the door; air shoved out of her, his kiss hard and rough and angry.

He kisses her like he wants to bruise her, mark her up. Swallow her whole.

Ellie isn’t sure she would mind.

“I have to go,” he says against her mouth, his voice heavy, his grip too tight on her. “I need you to try to trust me.”

And he kisses her again, slower, no less desperate.

There’s a knock on the door of the loft, far away but clear. Far away and more distant than it should be with his mouth on hers.

Nico looks down at her, swallows. “Trust me. Please.”

He pulls away like he has to tear himself away from her, opening the door while Ellie’s still stuck, pressed against the wall and licking the kissed-bruised feeling in her lips, the weight of his wants.

Nico looks at her, waiting:

Ellie nods.

 

 

 

                Ellie crosses her arms, leaning against the dining room table, Mya beside her, sitting on the table top and watching the same thing Ellie is.

“Does he like have a muscle mass requirement for friends?”

Ellie snorts, watching as Nico speaks to the two dark-suited men standing in the entranceway, one younger, a tattoo inked along the side of his neck, the other slightly shorter, far bulkier, hair dark and close-cropped to his skull.

Ellie isn’t too sure she would call either of them _friends._

The stockier man nods at something Nico says, nothing more than that, his face expressionless.

“Maybe he raids VA centres. Those guys look like they’ve seen some shit,” Mya whispers as Ellie watches Nico turn towards them, his eyes finding her in a second, his face just as hard to read as the men still standing in the doorway.

Nico closes the distance, Ellie can’t bring herself to look away; a little numb, a little wanting, a lot lost. He steps up to her at the table, cupping her cheeks to tilt her head up to his, pressing a nearly chaste kiss to her lips, like they’ve done it so many times before.

It’s odd. Too easy. She doesn’t know what to do with it.

“I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Why’s he here?”

“Because I asked him to be.”

Elie glares, her bottom lip pushing out when he doesn’t say more.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says quietly, then looks to Mya, his smirk quick and crooked and completely forced. “Try not to terrorise him.”

Mya laughs, leaning back on her hands the table, her foot swinging out. “No promises.”

And then he’s leaving, a final look at Ellie, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip, like an apology of some kind.

Neck Tattoo slips out the door after Nico, but the bulkier man slides the lock, the chain, the deadbolt and then crosses his arms and stands in front of the door.

“So, he’s like a bouncer, but…keeping us in,” Mya says, her foot swinging. “El, you know I love you, but what the fuck?”

Ellie sighs, watching as the man’s gaze shifts down like he’s perfectly fine just staring at nothing while there are two girls staring at him a few feet away.

“You know that guy…that one I met on the class trip and then started coming into the Roastery?”

“Art Creep, sure.”

“He’s not—” she cuts off, pulls in a breath and holds it until it hurts; Nico’s face in her mind, telling her _dangerous_ and _stay away_ and _not safe._ “Apparently he’s… bad news. Or something. And, Nico…knows him, or about him— I don’t even fucking know. It makes no sense.”

“So, he what? Left us a bodyguard and is…”

“I really don’t know,” Ellie groans, dropping her head into her hands to scrub at her face. Blinking when she comes back up, looking over at the man standing in front of the door. “He seemed pretty pissed off though, so.”

They both go quiet, Ellie isn’t sure how the man hasn’t moved a muscle, not even knowing that there are two teenage girls staring him down.

“So, he’s not just a businessman then, huh?”

Ellie bites her cheek, her spine tightening, Nico’s face in every blink, _I am not a nice man—_

“I don’t know.”

The room goes too quiet, Mya’s foot stilling. Ellie feels her sit straighter before pushing off the table to drop to her feet.

“Well, alright then, how about we leave the bodyguard here and go relax, maybe go talk somewhere more, uh,” she cuts a glance at the man, “Private?”

Ellie nods, letting Mya pull her away from the table and down the hallways towards the spare bedroom. The day bright and sun shining, everything so—

Bright.

Ellie blinks and sees, _I am not a nice man._

 

What’s a nice man?

Does he mean that simply because of what they’re doing? Because of the things he said…her being who she is, what she is to him, being seventeen, being his daughter, being too young and too…too new to all of this.

Is he not a nice man because of that?

 

 

 

                Mya’s just finishing the last coat on Ellie’s toe when a knock comes, breaking through the low beat of music tinning out of Mya’s phone.

“Up,” the bodyguard says his voice deep. “We’re leaving.”

 “Leaving?” Ellie frowns. “But Nico—”

“Am taking you to him.”

It’s only as he says this, his frame filling the doorway that Ellie catches the hint of an accent, something rough and foreign.

Ellie looks to Mya and they blink at each other for a moment before Ellie shakes her head. “Why?”

“Asked.”

“He asked?” Ellie frowns, feeling rude when she thinks full sentences would be nice right about now. “Why should we believe you?”

The man looks at her, his face empty, his eyes dark and then pulls out a phone from his pocket, pressing something on the screen; the ringing fills the quiet, followed by a rough string of words that are sharp and deep—

And the man holds out his phone towards Ellie, waiting.

Ellie scowls, slips off the bed and takes it, not saying anything as she holds it up to her ear, the name on the screen nothing more than NC.

“I’m thinking I should be proud you don’t just trust what anyone tells you to do,” Nico says into her ear, his voice teasing, but fond, more relaxed than it was earlier. “But Sergei is safe, you can trust him.”

“Why didn’t you just text me’?” Ellie questions, looking down at the pale-pink of her toes, the only colour Mya had in her make-up bag. _Totally offseason_ , she’d said, but Ellie hadn’t cared much.

Nico’s silent for a moment, a heartbeat tick of too-quiet and Ellie’s stomach tenses, he’s rarely caught without something to say.

“Honestly, sweetheart, I’m just used to giving orders. I didn’t even think about it. I’ll text you next time.”

“Or you could come get me,” Ellie mumbles, avoiding the heavy weight of the bodyguard’s stare. “Dude looks like he belongs in the Godfather, but like… meaner.”

Nico laughs, a low thing in her ear that makes her muscles ease a little, despite how off-balance she feels today, like the whole world is shifting beneath her feet and realigning into something new and foreign and unknown.

“I get it, but he’s good at what he does, El, you can trust him.”

“Where’s he taking us?”

“You,” Nico clarifies. “You’re coming to me, Mya’s heading back to campus, like she planned, since she’s supposed to be heading home today, isn’t she?”

Ellie bites her cheek, glancing at Mya, who is watching Ellie and waiting, like she already knows what the call is about.

“But—”

“Ellie,” Nico starts, stops, sighs. “Can you please just… do what I say?”

_Used_ _to giving orders_ , he’s said, and Ellie knows it’s not the first time she’s noticed it either.

“Fine,” she says, clicks the phone off and hands it back to the man waiting and watching her phone call. He’s nearly as tall Nico, but wider, his muscles thicker, looking like he wouldn’t be out of place in one of those strongman competitions.

 “If you need to pack, do it now,” he says to Mya, and then to Ellie, his face empty, eyes dark and unreadable. “Have never seen someone hang up on him. Funny.”

It takes her a minute to understand what he said, his voice so at odds with the words; droll and bored despite the _funny,_ tacked on at the end.

The man holds out his hand as Ellie blinks up at him. “Sergei.”

“Ellie,” she says, putting her hands in his.

“Good.” He nods, then turns to walk away. “Two minutes, we leave.”

 

 

 

 

                Ellie only notices that they’ve been circling the city before she leans forward and frowns at Sergei, sunglasses obscuring his face. _Not that there’s much on it to read, anyway_ , she thinks.

“Where are we going? We circled this block already.”

He’s quiet for a moment and then his head tilts up, just a little. “Checking for— _sledyashchiy_ … uhm, cars? Follow.”

Ellie sits back, twisting to look out the back window, through the dark tint of the glass before settling back into her seat, her mind rolling as the car does.

It goes quiet, she takes in the tinted glass, the dark interior, the heavy weight of the vehicle, the ones Nico drives more often now, less his sleek cars and more…

Something.

“He’s not just a businessman, is he?”

The car slows, honks sound in the traffic ahead. The people on the street move, facing forward, phones to ears, coffees in hand… just another day for them while Ellie is…

Something.

Sergei’s voice is steady but quiet when he answers. “He is good man.”

 

_I am not a nice man._

What’s a good man?

 

 

 

 

                They end up in front of a townhouse in Brooklyn, a quiet street, as close to suburban as the city gets until you leave it. Tree-lined, black-iron fences, old brick and white trims. A picture-perfect snapshot of what New York townhomes are supposed to look like.

It isn’t what she expected.

And then, Nico comes out the front door.

And it’s even less what she expected because his mother is behind him, leaning against the doorframe as Nico walks towards the car and the girl inside.

Her stomach twists, shifts, a strange little gurgle at _family_ and _belonging,_ because he’s jacketless and his sleeves are rolled and his mother is just leaning there, looking like she stepped off the pages of a House and Home’s glossy page, like it’s a snapshot moment of a holiday.

Family reunion. Home for the holidays.

But, Nico’s at the car door before she thinks much farther than that, his smile quick and easing when he sees her, holding the door open for her as she climbs out, already feeling underdressed in her sneakers and overalls and shivering a little at the drop in the November air as the day clouds over into something grey and heavy.

Nico taps the roof of the car behind her, and she hears the window roll down, but Illyana is holding out her hand towards Ellie and calling her forward with a smile. Ellie goes; tilts her cheek up for the soft kiss, her hands cold as Illyana takes them in her softer, warmer one, and pulls her into the house.

_Home_ , Ellie thinks, it’s far more a home than just a house.

Smells like cinnamon and pine, a rounded, full smell that makes the cold outside seem welcome, even as the sky greys like it’s hanging heavy with snow.

Nico closes in behind her, the door shutting, the home sealing in the warmth as Illyana rubs her hands along Ellie’s arms.

“No jacket?” she _tsks_ , her bracelets jangling as she rubs. “Come on, let's get you warmed up.”

Ellie glances at her as she looks back at Nico, a chastising look on her face, one that says, _really, dear, letting her out without a coat?_

Ellie kind of feels like arguing that it’s not really that cold, but she probably should have grabbed her jacket, or changed altogether, overalls feel very… young, in face of her grandmother and the idea of family and roles and… _should be._

But, it’s too late now. Illyana’s arm curves around her shoulders and pulls her down a hallway. The townhouse is narrow and tall, dark wood floors and cream walls, full of bursts of colour, art on the walls, accent pieces of furniture and warm-glowing lights.

It looks like it’s just as much out of a House and Home ad as her grandmother does.

Ellie wonders, suddenly, how the hell she ended up here, how this became her life, one decision to find a man and now she’s…

Here.

In the kitchen, there’s a small, half circle booth table in front of a bay window overlooking a backyard full of green and stone and a balcony set already wrapped up for winter. The kitchen smells even more like cinnamon. Illyana’s arm slides off her shoulders as she heads into the kitchen, asking Ellie what kind of tea she likes and urging her to sit at the table.

_Lemon, or…whatever you have, really,_ she says, not really caring much.

Nico settles beside her, his thigh pressing up against hers, his other leg stretched out a little but in front of the table, looking like he’s far too big for the space. Ellie turns a little to look up at him as his arm rests over her shoulders along the booth back.

A teapot on the stove whistles in the quiet.

Illyana knew Ellie was coming, then, she guesses.

He doesn’t say anything, but their eyes meet and all the things between them are thick and muddled and Ellie really wishes she could read him better. Until his eyes dart to his mother and back to Ellie and he’s leaning forward, his hand warm on the side of her neck, his thumb on her jaw, his lips soft and warm when he presses a kiss right to the side of her mouth.

She kind of hates how much she wants him. That double-time skip of her heart every time he looks at her the way he does, that warmth in her body any time he touches her…

It’s _stupid._

She wishes she knew if he felt the same.

His thumb passes along her jawbone before his hand falls away and he’s looking back towards the kitchen. Ellie tears her eyes away from his profile as she looks back at her grandmother, her hair in a low ponytail, a few shades lighter than she thought it was the first time they met. A dirtier blonde than Ellie’s.

Ellie guesses Nico gets his looks more from his father than his mother. Though from what she’s seen of his family they’re all tall. Ellie can’t help but agree with him now, wondering where those genes went. She could have used a few extra inches.

“So,” Illyana starts, her smile small and kind as she crosses the kitchen to settle across from them at the table, sliding the tea across it towards Ellie. “I’ve been told we have some things to talk about.”

Ellie frowns, cupping her hands around the mug, glancing at Nico before looking back up to Illyana, having no idea what to say.

Things to talk about? There’s a lot to talk about. Her life is full of things to _talk_ _about_ since she swallowed her nerves and _shouldn’ts_ and went to Elysium to find a man in a photo.

She really fucking hopes that _things to talk about_ has nothing to do with... _that._ Her nerves pricking a little at the idea of it.

“Is this still about Max?” Ellie asks, her nose scrunching a little. “Because I get it, I should stay away from him.”

Illyana smiles, humoured, _pleased_. “You are definitely a Cordova, hm?”

There’s nothing much to say to that, so Ellie lifts her shoulders a little in a shrug, bumping Nico’s ribs as she does it.

“ _Max_ ,” she says slowly, the ‘A-X’ a sharp sound, and Ellie remembers that it isn’t Max, but _Maks_. “Maksim,” Illyana says. “Maks, I suppose. Though I haven’t called him that since we were children.”

Ellie blinks, meeting the other woman’s eyes, startled by her words.

_Children?_

“I was born in 1966,” Illyana explains like she’s reciting history, factually, without emotion. “In a private hospital near Saint Petersburg. The oldest of three during a period of financial growth for my family. I was… the _printessa_ of my family, the only daughter.”

There’s a tinge to her voice as she speaks, a tint of an accent Ellie’s never noticed before.

“But my family was, _is,_ complicated. There are rules, in families like mine, rules you don’t ever break. But... when I was eighteen, I met a man that made breaking them… the only real choice I could ever make.”

“Why?”

Illyana smiles, her eyes glancing towards Nico, still pressed to Ellie’s side. “Because I wasn’t willing to give my child up, and I knew if I stayed, I would have to.”

“But,” Ellie frowns, glancing at Nico and her grandmother. “I…don’t understand.”

“You know the stories, of course? The stereotypes? The Russian criminals, tattoos, drugs, violence? It’s quite popular in film?”

There are pieces that click into place, _complicated_ , Nico had said, _complicated,_ Illyana echoes… “And Max— Maksim?”

“Is my brother.”

Ellie frowns, her body tense. “And he’s…?”

“Not like that at all, I’m afraid.” Illyana’s smile tightens like it’s made of glass; easily breakable. “The real-life versions are much, much worse, darling. I promise you.”

Nico is motionless beside her, she wants to ask him why the hell he brought her here, why he couldn’t just tell her. Why he isn’t saying _anything._

His mother’s family is what? Mafia?  Russian criminals?

“Why is he— I mean, what does this have to do with me? Why would he talk to me?’

“I haven’t seen my family since the day I realised I was pregnant with your father. I have nothing from my life before I came to New York.” Illyana’s smile fades, something a little sad behind her eyes. “But I know my family, and you, darling, you look like a Zhurov.”

She looks up at her son, her brow lifting. “You see it, no? Far more Zhurov than Cordova in appearance. You should see our family portraits,” Illyana smiles, touching her hair. “I’ve always been the odd one out. They’re all so very _Italian_.”

Nico tenses against her side, but he stays silent.

Illyana leans forward, one hand reaching out to touch Ellie’s, “I noticed it the moment I saw you. The resemblance. My brother would be a fool not to see it too.”

“Enough,” Nico interrupts, his voice steady but not quite empty of irritation. “That has nothing to do with anything.”

“I disagree,” his mother says.

“It doesn’t explain why he’s _here_.”

“No,” Illyana agrees. “It doesn’t.”

“Or how he found her.”

“Oh, _Kolya_ , you said it yourself, you weren’t exactly discreet in tracking her down,” she tilts her head a little, a tinge sympathy and understanding. “And if he’s been in the city for some time…”

Nico pushes up from the table, walking away as Ellie feels her side go cold at his abrupt departure. She twists in her seat, turning to look at him disappear down the hallway, her mind still rolling with everything she’s learning. She pushes up, ready to follow him, but Illyana’s hand tightens on her hand, holding her still.

“Give him a moment, darling.”

Ellie hesitates before easing back onto the bench seat, looking at her grandmother’s hand over her own, a thought to visit grandma Evans, a thought to how the hell she’d take all of this.

Ellie lifts her tea, thoughts rolling. Pausing before she drinks. “Why’d you call him that? Kol…Kola?”

“ _Kolya,_ ” Illyana smiles, leaning back in the booth. “It’s a nickname for Nikolai, which is what I wanted to name him, but Nicolas was more…American. We thought it more suitable at the time. But I have a fondness for it still. And it suits him, of course. Kolya means victor of the people. And your father has always had a certain…draw about him.”

And who’s she to argue that? She’s the last person who _should_ understand what her grandmother means, but Ellie can’t help but think it’s the truest thing she’s ever heard.

It’s part of why she’s here now, isn’t it?

“Are you happy you tracked him down?”

Ellie blinks at the question. Is she happy she tracked him down? Her body, her heart, her stomach say _yes, yes, of course—_

But her mind— her mind says that all of this would be so much easier if she’d never gone looking.

Curiosity killed the cat, after all.

Now she’s, what— part of a mob-connected family? Mob adjacent family?

Is it called the mob?

“Why do you think Max— Maks… knows who I am?”

“Yes, darling, I do. I don’t think there are enough coincidences in the world to bring him here, to this city, to find you, and not have it be  intentional… But I don’t know why.”

Ellie nods, her tea nothing more than lukewarm now. “If you guessed?”

There’s hesitation, a glance away, down the hallway Nico disappeared down. Illyana sighs, her eyes soft and fond. “You’re part of a complicated family, darling. The Cordova’s and the Zhurov’s. And your father, Kolya earns his name and his birthright—”

“Ellie,” Nico calls, his voice steady, carrying down the hallway. “We’re leaving.”

Illyana frowns, even as Ellie pushes up, not that she minds staying, or getting to know her father’s— _her_ family, she just… it’s all _so_ _much._

Cordova’s and Zhurov’s and… Mobs?

“Your father is the—” Illyana starts, frowning as Nico comes into the kitchen, holding his jacket out for Ellie to slip into. Which she does, because she kind of _wants_ to leave now. Would rather be with him alone than anywhere else. It’s all so much easier when it’s just them alone.

“You’re leaving?” Illyana frowns. “But your father is due—”

“I’ll talk to him later,” Nico interrupts, already turning to leave, his hand slipping into Ellie’s. “I’m taking Ellie home.”

“ _She is home_ , Kolya, she’s a Cor—”

“She’s _not,_ ” Nico says through his teeth, a burn of anger that looks barely controlled, his hand so tight around hers it nearly hurts as he turns to face his mother. “She’s not. She’s mine and I don’t want her a part of this.”

“It’s part of her blood as much as it is yours---”

Nico’s jaw shifts, his shoulders tense, standing in front of Ellie now, like his body can block her from their words, like he really is barring her from…from whatever he’s trying to bar her from.

His family?

“This isn’t a discussion, Ma. Ellie isn’t ever going to be a Cordova, you hear me?”

Ellie swallows something sharp in her throat, pulling her hand out of his, her fingers white from his grip. She looks up at him when he looks back, like he forgot, for a moment, that she was listening.

He blinks like he just realised how his words sound, his face shifts, like a wince caught on irritation, pushed out on a rough: “Ellie, that’s not what I meant.”

But there’s a burst of cold behind them as the front door opens and a man steps in; taking in the three of them with dark eyes.

“I feel like I’m interrupting something.”

It isn’t hard to guess who he is, even as Ellie crosses her arms and inches away from Nico’s hand trying to close around her wrist. Ignoring the tensing shift of the air between them before she focuses back on the man standing in the entranceway.

He’s tall, leaner than Nico but still thick beneath the black of a wool coat. The suit beneath no less well made than the ones she sees on Nico every day. The same broad jaw but buried beneath a dark beard, the same eyes, the same hair, though shorter, peppered by grey along the temples and into his beard.

When he looks down at her, he smiles and it’s so similar she’s a little stunned by it, how much Nico looks like his father, but different too…like it’s like his mother said…that _draw—_

“You must be our prodigal granddaughter?” he smiles, holding out his hand, long-fingered and wide. Ellie takes it, her heart in her throat, a denial on her tongue because Nico just said it—

She isn’t ever going to be a _Cordova_.

She’s an Evans though. And that means something.

“Ellie Evans,” she states, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

He huffs a laugh and Ellie tries not to flinch when Nico touches her shoulder, his hand warm and too wide, her heart tripping because she’s weak and she—

Her eyes burn, and she has to swallow, hopes there’s nothing on her face, no wobble of her lip as she forces a smile.

She’s far too attached to him. She knows it, it settles like a fucking rock in her stomach, her heart beating so fast she feels like she might throw up any minute, like the world’s tilting a little too far and she’s going to fall any moment.

What happened to wanting to keep her? _For as long as you’ll fucking let me._

So much for that, she thinks. Apparently, that doesn’t quite extend to being part of his family.

“Were you two leaving? I thought we had things to discuss?”

Nico’s chest shifts beside her, pulling in a breath to speak, can feel it, with how close he’s standing.

“Can I use the bathroom?” Ellie interrupts, looking up the stairs, needing a moment, a fucking moment away from him.

“Second door on the left once you get upstairs,” her grandfather says, pointing up the stairs.

_Thanks,_ Ellie mutters, ignoring the flicker of tension in Nico’s fingers as she steps away from him, carefully not looking as she turns, sidesteps her grandfather and ignores the weight of Nico’s gaze on her way up the stairs.

She catches the edges of Illyana’s voice as she’s cresting the last step; something rough and hard in another language. She doesn’t catch Nico’s answer as she’s stepping into the second room on the left, shutting the door behind her and locking it with a quiet _snick._

 She closes the lid of the toilet, sitting down on it and pulling her shirt sleeves over her hands before crossing her arms.

 She tells herself to think and not just react, to _think_ and not just get _angry—_ even though every part of her wants to _react._ Wants to fight him, hit him, hurt him, a little—

Feels a little like she’s desperate to argue with him, to make him stumble just as much as she is; to make him hurt, just like she is.

Ellie closes her eyes, willing her stomach to stop rolling, trying to tell herself that what he said is true, that he didn’t mean it like that. But…but he never wanted anyone to know who she was to him, isn’t that true? Despite what he’s said now…he didn’t want anyone to know she was his kid.

She tells herself she knows why, because it’s the same reason she hasn’t and isn’t telling Mya—

But she still feels a tinge of hurt, a tint of anger, a chest-tight hurt.

_She isn’t ever going to be a Cordova._

There are voices downstairs, pitching at different octaves; Nico’s voice rolling low and up through the floors, settling inside of her the way it always does. Like her ears are attuned to it, keyed into him; eager for him in anyway her body can get him.

She can’t help but focus on it, easing the door open, easing into the hallway, stepping forward on socked feet, all slow and steady.

_She’s seven-fucking-teen,_ Nico’s voice carries, his voice lower, angrier than she expected.

Edges towards the stairs, easing down on the top step, her hand white-knuckled on the railing as she perches her bottom on the edge of it; ears strained.

_I don’t want her involved—_

_When has that ever mattered in our life?_ Nico’s father, his pitch low, different, a lilt to his words from an accent not quite faded. _You know how this goes._

_She’s yours, Kolya, what did you expect to happen?_

_Exactly. She’s mine, not yours. She’s not a fucking Zhurov or a fucking Volante, she’s not even a fucking Cordova. You don’t get a say in it. Jesus, she’s only been in my life for three months and this happens?_

_We don’t even know what the Russian wants,_ her grandfather says, _as far as we know right now, she’s nothing but a way to get your attention. And he’s done that rather well, hasn’t he, Nicolas?_

Silence, Ellie can only imagine Nico’s face: angry and dark, a tension in his jaw.

_I’m not bringing her into this life. She stays out of it. Who she is stays in this fucking family, you hear me? No one else. Not a cousin, not an old friend, not fucking_ Tolya— _Fucking no one._

_Be reasonable, Kolya, bringing her into the family—_

_Will put a bigger fucking target on her than there is now. My daughter? My fucking seventeen-year-old daughter? You really don’t think she’ll be a fucking target? Jesus, Ma, look at her._

_Alright, Nicolas, it’s your choice._

_How are you going to explain her then? Hm, dear? This sudden appearance of a girl who has your smile, Kolya, your eyes. Who looks like she belongs to my family?_

_She looks like her mother,_ Nico bites out. _The similarities you see? Coincidence. Nothing more._

A scoff, high, incredulous. _Nonsense. I’ve seen the woman, she takes after my family much more._

_You’re delusional, Ma. You’re seeing what you want to see._

_So are you, darling. Pretending that hiding who she is will be sustainable? Are you going to hide her in your apartment forever? You saw her face when you said she wasn’t a Cordova. That girl wants to be with you, Kolya, wants to be a part of your life, and you want her here too, don’t think for a moment I can’t see that._

_You said she wasn’t going to be a Cordova in front of her?_ Her grandfather asks. _You’re usually much more controlled than this, Nicolas. Why are you so worried? You run this city, we own it. How much damage can one Russian do?_

There’s silence, a heartbeat of it, a pounding in her own ears, sweat on her palms, her stomach knotted—

_Tell that to Sergei._

_Then why did you bring her here, Nicolas, if not to have us tell her things?_

_To warn her! Jesus, Ma, it’s not my fucking story to tell. You know who your brother is, what he’s capable of. I expected you to fucking warn her. Not try to tattoo Cordova across her fucking forehead._

_It would be a pretty decent deterrent for a lot of people,_ her grandfather says, aiming for humour, his voice light. _If you want to protect her—_

_It’s not good enough._

_And hiding her worked well so far, didn’t it?_

Silence.

_I’ve made my choice, Ellie stays out it. I’m taking her home—_

_If you think I’m not having a relationship with my granddaughter—_

_Not right now, cuore, let him be. Nicolas, your mother and I respect your choice, but it’s the wrong one, you know that as well, I know you do. You’ve just never had anything to lose before, not like this. I accept that you want to leave now, but tomorrow I’d like you to bring our granddaughter for dinner, a proper dinner so she can meet her family._

There’s no answer, but there’s a creak in the floor and before Ellie can move, Nico is at the bottom of the staircase, looking up at her. His foot paused on the first step. His face just as dark as she imagined until he looks up—

Their eyes meet for a heartbeat, a slow blink.

“El,” he starts, but there’s nothing to say. It’s all on his face. An apology, anger, fear—

He takes another step and stops, halted by the look on her face; the shift of her eyebrows, the confusion… the still lingering hurt.

_She won’t ever be a Cordova._

“I feel like I don’t even know you,” she whispers, her voice caught in her throat, has to swallow her heartbeat to get it out.

He doesn’t answer, is silent and still for so long she wonders if time stopped. But then, lifts his hand, an offer, a request.

A _please._

She stands, her knees weak, her hand inching off the railing like it’s been glued on. Each step feels like a choice.

But did she ever have one?

Sucked into his orbit the moment she saw him? The moment—

The moment she saw that photo, that blurred grin and thought _you’re mine._

 

 

 


	15. Part One, XV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I uploaded two in one go, make sure you read 14 first!

 

 

* * *

 

XV

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                The car ride is silent, the world distant through the tinted windows, through the haze of her thoughts.

It’s too quiet in the car, Nico hasn’t said anything since that broken half start of her name and Ellie can’t make herself break the quiet either. For as much as she thought she wanted answers, every time she thinks of a question, four more sprout up alongside it, and the tangled, still growing, still borrowing questions…

She can’t find the root of them.

The car stops and her hand is on the door handle before she even really takes in the area around them. It only takes a second, a blink to see they aren’t in the underground lot of his building, but on a street she doesn’t recognise.

“Where are we?”

Ellie frowns, looking out of the tinted windows, a cleaners, a printing shop, a glowing sign for LIQUOR being sold out of some bottom floor shop down a small set of stairs. It’s a typical sight for the older areas of the city, the dated apartments overtop jammed storefronts; black fire escapes zigzagging down the length of them.

She squints, pressing closer to the glass, looking up along the buildings and trying to understand why they’re here.

Ellie glances back over her shoulder when she hears the car door open behind her and frowns, watching Nico cross in front of the vehicle, face impassive as he pulls open her door, his hand held out for her again.

Ellie looks at it, at the building behind him…and puts her hand in his.

Because why _not_ , she thinks, _in for a penny._

There are people smoking, leaning against the old iron railing in front of the liquor store, a greasy warm smell lingering in the air from a Chinese restaurant the next building over mixing with the Indian a few shops down. Ellie feels the weight of the two men watching them, but Nico leads her up a narrow staircase like he doesn’t even see them.

It’s narrow, a mix of sounds and smells inside just as much as outside. Music and food, smoke and sweat, old wood, something stale, a slab of fresh white paint covering something on the wall as they climb higher.

On the second floor, Nico’s hand leaves hers, taking his keys from his pocket, the sound bright and metallic in the narrow, dimly lit hallway. Ellie watches his shoulders, watches him flip keys along the ring until he pushes one into the lock, the door creaking as it opens.

His hand spreads wide on the door, holding it open, looking back at her and tilting his head, a silent, _go on._

“What is this place?” she asks as she walks in and blinks into the dim light compared to the brightness of the hall.

The two windows ahead let in the dim grey day, bright enough to only send a bit of pale light into the room, overtaken by the cheap bulb glowing over them.

Nico flicks a light switch as Ellie steps in, the door falling heavy behind them. The artificial light doesn’t do much for the bareness of the apartment, or the stale, old smell, like the smells around them have been left to sink into the parquet flooring.

There’s a small living area, a tiny kitchen, and, Ellie guesses, if it’s anything like the apartment she and her mother lived in just before they moved in with Paul, two bedrooms… if it’s lucky enough to have the room.

There’s an old couch jammed against one wall, an empty, tiny kitchen, a narrow hallway the door blocked when it opened, leading to the bedrooms, she guesses.

It’s small and old and she has no idea why they’re here.

Ellie wanders a few steps in, peering out the window to looks across the street; watching cars go by, the shops and building across from them and stretching onward.

“We’re near Roosevelt Park, aren’t we?”

Nico nods, leaning against the wall next to her, right next to the windowsill. “Yeah, about a block.”

“Mom and I lived near here, just before Paul,” Ellie says, watching him from the corner of her eye; gauging him, waiting for him to say more, to say _anything._ But all Nico does is lean against the little counter that separates the kitchen from the living area, his arms crossed, watching her with nothing on his face at all.

He looks out of place; too big for the space, too well-dressed, too… _other_ beneath the off-yellow glow of the overhead lights. Like someone cut a man out of a luxury ad and stuck him to some cheap kitchen ad.

It’s nearly funny, should be funny, she thinks, if it wasn’t all so confusing.

She really doesn’t understand why he brought her here.

“What are we doing here?” she asks, meeting his eyes across the small living space, no more than a few steps between them.

“I grew up here.”

Ellie’s mind staggers. “You… what?”

“I was surprised when you said this is where your mom moved you to when you left New Rochelle. She hated it here.”

Her mouth opens, shuts; his words sinking in, the _implication_ seeping in like the draft sneaking through the windowpane, cold and creeping. “I thought you said it was a one-night stand?”

“It was,” he says easily, like it doesn’t contradict that he knows Ellie’s mother never liked this area. “Your mother and I went to the same school for a while, before her parents split.”

Ellie sinks her teeth into her tongue, her ears ringing, a car honks outside, someone yells, music thumps so distantly it sounds like a dream, or a memory, maybe, of a song stuck in her head.

“She never liked it here, I remember that. Used to say how much better her ma’s place was. Guessing it was New Rochelle, now.” Nico shrugs like he can’t be bothered to remember it. “And she _hated_ me.”

 “But she…” Ellie trails off confusion sitting in her mouth, wanting to spill out in a rush of _what the fuck._

“Slept with me?” he finishes for her, a quirk to his lips, a huff of laughter; his eyes steady on her face. “We were seventeen, sweetheart. I think one of my friends starting dating one of her friends, and some weekends your mom would be there, brought along with the friend, I’d guess. Still didn’t like me much.”

He shrugs, “Not that I can blame her. I was a cocky fucking prick back then.”

Ellie frowns, remembers Illyana holding that photo, asking him if it was when he was fighting. Which would have had to have been the same time he knew Ellie’s mother.

Even with the photo, that too-wide grin, she has trouble imagining him at seventeen as anything other than what he is now.

A contradiction of hard angles and heavy muscles beneath a walking Armani ad. A crooked grin and a dirty mouth, a luxury item, a wealthy man.

 “But why would she… if she hated you?”

He snorts. “Honestly? Because I looked good and I knew it. I had a reputation, sweetheart, but I could back it up.”

“What kind of reputation?” Ellie isn’t even sure if she wants to know, thinks she knows already because she knows what she’s thought of him now, what his image says…the things she’d assumed about him.

A certain kind of man living a certain kind of lifestyle.

“I was seventeen. What kind of reputation do you think?”

_Yeah_ , she thinks…it’s not really hard to understand.

Ellie swallows, tongue darting out to wet her lips. Feeling unstable, off-balance. Strangely like she didn’t want to know. Even though…she does, she thinks. Wants to understand him—

Her father. Her mother. Herself?

A holy trinity of Fucked Up.

The question rises up inside her and she can’t bite it back before it slips out. “Did you like her?”

Nico frowns, a flash of something disbelieving like he can’t believe she asked, before it smooths into something fond.

“ _Ellie_. Until you walked into my club your mother was just… a name from my past.”

“But…you said that I look like her…you told Illyana that I looked like mom and not like a… a Zhurov.”

Nico sighs, his eyes closing briefly, pushing off the counter and closing the distance between them. Ellie’s head tilts back as he gets closer, leaning against the wall right next to her.

He searches her face, one of his eyes lit brighter than the other, a bright grey in the weird overcast light coming in from the window.

Ellie wonders if hers look the same.

His hand comes up, and there’s a flicker of hesitation in it, the briefest pause before he runs his finger along the curve of her nose, the faintest touch that still sparks through her body, routing along her nerves, right out the tip of her toes.

“You’re her daughter, I can see it. But I can also see what my mother does, and—” his finger touches her cheek, right where her dimple should be. “I can see myself.”

His finger turns into two, into three, a ghosting touch along her cheek as he cups it, his fingers curving around the side of her neck, his thumb brushing over her lips.

“I told you I saw you smile that day I came to your work... but,” his lip twitches up. “That wasn’t completely true. I watched you for a while before I came in. When I was still… when I still thought I could just see you and that would be enough. When I thought I just wanted to know if you were okay. Taken care of.”

He huffs, a rush of not quite laughter. “I was fucked the moment I saw you. I just didn’t want to admit it.”

Ellie closes her eyes because he’s _too much._ His palm on her cheek, his body heat like a line, like a tether, pulling her in.

She steps forward, pushing her forehead into his chest, breathing him in, his hand curving around the back of her neck, stroking up into her hair.

“Why’d you bring me here?”

He’s quiet for long enough that Ellie tilts her head up, sees the broad of his jaw, his head turned to look out the window.

“You said you felt like you didn’t know me,” he says, looking back down at her. “This place… it’s kind of like the start. I think to understand someone you need to know where they come from.”

Ellie doesn’t understand him, not really, he feels like a puzzle box, every time she turns a side, flips a square, there’s something misaligned, something new, something she doesn’t know what to do with.

The man she met lives a life like money doesn’t matter, like he was born to it; was well-suited to the image of a man defined by his haves and not his have-nots.

But this… a place like this?

People who grow up in places like this are almost always defined by their have-nots.

(It’s parents who have to work too much, latchkey kids roaming the street, cheap clothes, cheap food, not even really understanding what you’re missing, only knowing it’s not quite right.)

Ellie knows. She was one, once.

“It’s hard to imagine you here,” she says, looking over the small apartment.

“Want a tour?” he asks, something teasing in his voice. “There’s like six more feet to see.”

Ellie laughs, turning her face back into his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

His chest shifts beneath her forehead, a rumble of laughter and he’s stepping away, his hand slipping into hers. “Come on. A grand tour.”

Ellie smiles, rolling her eyes. “Did you get the closet bedroom? I did in ours. I can’t imagine you’d even fit in the room I had.”

He smiles over his shoulder as they walk through the narrow, dark hallway towards the two bedrooms and, Ellie guesses, the same tiny bathroom their old apartment had.

“Yeah, then had to learn how to share when I was nine and Matty came along. Think we got bunk beds when I was twelve? That was a fucking good time.”

Ellie laughs, trying to picture it as they step into the small bedroom and Nico takes up most of the space just standing inside of it.

There’s nothing much in the room now, one small window, white walls and a flat mattress taking up a large chunk of the floor.

“That’s a bit creepy,” Ellie says, scrunching her nose a little at it. “Why is there a mattress?”

She eyes him as he steps around her, moving towards the mattress that she thinks is more like a futon and sitting down on it, toeing off his leather shoes. Leaning against the wall, Nico cocks an eyebrow as he tilts his head back to look at her, a smirk growing on his mouth.

“It’s a prime hook up spot, didn’t you know? Tiny apartments with parquet flooring turn all the girls on. Especially seventeen-year-olds.”

Ellie rolls her eyes but can’t quite hold in her smile. “Very funny.”

He smiles, loose and crooked. “Used to fight at a place near here, it was easier to crash here than make my way home.”

“What kind of fighting? Like boxing?”

Nico snorts, “Not like boxing, no.”

Ellie tilts her head, wandering over to the window to look out, but she has to step on the futon to do it so she toes off her shoes before she does.

There’s another draft from the window, a little whistling sound in the quiet spaces between the noises outside; she’s guessing he doesn’t bother with the heat that often. The whole apartment is pretty cold.

It’s getting darker, Ellie imagines it must be late afternoon now. The lights outside are glowing brighter, headlights, streetlights, shop signs painting the street different colours.

She shivers; the windows are definitely drafty, the cold sneaks through like the sound does, a burst of laughter followed by a _fuck you_ somewhere down below them. Another fire escape, maybe.

Wrapping Nico’s jacket tighter around herself, she turns away from the window to look at Nico; head still tilted back against the wall, his eyes on her, looking relaxed at perfectly content, even on the hard futon in an old, tiny apartment.

That he _grew up in._ Apparently _._

“MMA?” she guesses, wondering what he looked like before he started fighting, if he was tall and gangly, or if he was just tall and still stupidly attractive in a completely unfair way.

A twitch of his lips, a small head shake.

She wishes he made more sense. She doesn’t understand how he lived here, how he grew up here—

How do they live the way they do now?

How does _he_? How did he get from this place to a— _God_ , she can’t even _guess_ how much his loft costs.

_You run this city, we own it,_ his father said. But what the fuck does that mean?

How can they own New York?

“What kind of fighting?” Ellie asks instead of the newly sprouting, newly twisting questions inside of her.

He hesitates, scratching his jaw, looking like he isn’t quite sure what to say. “Like…backroom, basement, hit someone till they don’t get up, kinda fighting, sweetheart. I’ve never been big on rules.”

 “Isn’t it dangerous?”

He huffs, head lolling to the side a little. “Isn’t that half the fun?”

_Isn’t that half the fun?_ Ellie looks at him, in his Armani or Burberry, or whatever he’s wearing, talking about street fighting like it’s _fun._ Like getting beaten up is a good time?

Ellie somehow doubts he was the one getting beat up.

She can’t help but think she’d like to _see it._ Nico shirtless and sweaty and fighting and—there’s no reason she should like that idea so much.

“Do you still do it?”

 “Rarely.”

“I’ve never been in a fight,” Ellie says, biting her cheek.

The quirk of his lips is the only warning she gets before she’s flat on her back, Nico braced above her, pinning her wrists down with one hand.

“I’ll fight you,” he grins, then skirts his fingers along her side, making her jolt and burst out a laugh.

Ellie tries to bring her knee up, twisting away from his fingers, laughter slowing as his fingers ease into his hand on her side, warm and just in the space between the start of her overalls and where her shirt as ridden up, a small patch of skin.

“I’ll even go easy on you,” he teases, his dimple deep in one cheek with that crooked grin of his.

“I don’t need you to go easy on me,” Ellie says, licking her lips; the weight of him settling warm and heavy between her legs. “I can take you.”

Nico lifts a brow, “Oh, yeah? You think so?”

Ellie nods, _uh-huh,_ and then lifts her head to catch his mouth, to scrape her teeth along his bottom lip—

Nico’s still only for a heartbeat before he’s kissing her back, his body weighing down heavier as he sinks down to deepen the kiss.

His head tilts, his hand coming off her wrists to brace on his forearm, his hand tightening on her side as Ellie’s tongue strokes along his. And, as it gets deeper, hotter, messier—

Ellie pushes one knee up between them, pushing her foot against the bulge of his cock in his pants, half-hard from kissing her.

Nico laughs into her mouth. “Oh, is that how it is?”

“Yeah, Daddy, that’s how it is,” Ellie grins, biting her lip, his gaze burning into hers; a flicker of something in them at her words, but she doesn’t get a chance to figure it out before he’s pushing into her, knocking her leg to the side, his weight heavier than before.

Ellie laughs, but it twists into a gasp as his thumb hooks under her shirt hem, his hand spreading along her side as he yanks the fabric up until it bunches just under her armpit and his mouth is on her nipple before she can even register the cold air on her skin.

His teeth sharp, his tongue hot—

A strange, sparking sort of awareness of being fully dressed but for the angle of her shirt, the small space he has between the bunch of fabric and the front of her overalls. Just enough for his mouth. Just enough to make her squirm for more.

And Nico gives it to her, nipping at the peak of her nipple while he pops the clip holding the straps up, pulling it down to shove both sides of her shirt up, thumb hooked, hand curved along the side of her chest, just beside her breast.

She bites her cheek, groaning, watching the red of his mouth, the white of his teeth as he sucks and nips and makes her nipple all pink and damp and sensitive before kissing across her chest to the other one.

Ellie gasps when he sucks a mark into the little swell of her breast, his thumb stroking over the wet one, nail scrapping over the peak, his hand heavy and wide, caressing over it. And, she thinks, for not having much there, he certainly makes the most of them.

His hand skims along her side, pulling her hips up onto his thigh so Ellie can grind against him, but the fabric is too thick, even though the seam of the denim is digging into her in a nice way, it’s not half as nice as the feel of his cock grinding against her.

Ellie bites her lip, but she can’t hold it in, not when she’s watching his mouth, the slick shine left on her skin, the pink peaks of her nipples as he worries them, licks them, pulls noises out of her and makes every desperate roll of her hips a little more slick.

“Daddy—” she whines, pushing at his shoulders; feels Nico grin against her chest. He leans back and hauls her up onto his folded knees, peeling his jacket from her shoulders, his lips hot and wet from her chest as she works at his buttons, squirming in his lap for more friction.

There’s a laugh or something like it in his chest, and he hauls her up, holding her steady as she stumbles getting her feet under her, bracing her hands on his shoulders as he curves his fingers into the waist of her overalls and tugs them down her legs, underwear and all. And somehow, in something like a wrestling move, curves his arm around her legs and brings her right back down.

Ellie’s back hits the mattress with an _oof_ , air knocked out of her. Blinking up at Nico’s grin as she laughs, bright and short and breathless.

With her legs spread, feet on either side of his knees, and stripped naked except for her shirt still bunched above her breasts and covering her arms, Ellie shivers; her nipples hard and oversensitive in the cold absence of his mouth.

She feels exposed, his eyes roaming over her, her cheeks pink, pebbles spreading over her skin as she shivers again.

“Poor baby,” Nico hushes, his voice a low thing that curls in her stomach, something teasing, something _hungry_ as he takes her in, not even trying to hide how he’s looking at her. Eyes roaming her body, her legs, her cunt, her chest, the pink of her cheeks— yanking off his tie, stripping his shirt off, muscles flexing in a way that makes her bite her lip, cunt aching as he tosses it onto the floor, and then comes back down over her, arms thick and braced on either side off her, his grin sharp and hungry. "I'll warm you up."

Ellie grips onto the thick of them, feeling them flex as he leans closer, head lowering to her chest, his breath hot, his hair falling out of place, all inky dark next to her skin.

_These are so cute,_ he rumbles, mouthing over her nipple, catching the peak in his mouth, watching it turn pink, watching the way she twitches, her blunt, freshly-pink nails digging into his arms at every new pull, new scrape, new sucking kiss.

Before she can complain, before she can whine that she might like his mouth on her, but she wants _more—_

 Nico’s leaning back, pulling her hips up onto his bent knees, spreading her legs wide and hunching down to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss over her clit.

_Oh, fuck—_ she curses, hips twitching up, her hand flying to his head, knotting into his hair, rolling her cunt against his mouth.

He groans, shifts forward, an arm curling beneath her to pull her hips higher as he opens his mouth wider, his tongue hot and heavy, licking over her.

She can’t help but think about what he said last night, that she likes him _manhandling_ her. She really, really does.

Nico holds Ellie’s hips up to his mouth, his tongue pushing inside of her like she’s the best thing he ever tasted. Stroking over the spread of her, circling her clit before sucking at it; the pressure in his mouth, the pressure of his face pushing into her, urging Ellie to grind harder, to roll her hips against his face makes her voice crack, her spine tighten—

Even as she loses control of her legs, toes curling, pushing against his shoulders, knees weak and falling wide, twitching in whenever he nips her clit before laving over it with the flat of his tongue.

She grips his jacket, wrinkled and squished beneath her head, the other twisting tighter in his hair, turning her face into the bunching of the jacket to bury the pitch of her voice, the hitching noises she can’t hold in; the broken, desperate little _daddys_.

Nico’s hand leaves her thigh, tugging the jacket away from her, tossing it out of reach.

She kind of hates him for it, the sound of her voice echoing in the small space is too loud, too desperate, too embarrassing… someone has to be able to hear.

But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t care, lets Ellie twist her fingers in his hair as her hips twitch against his mouth, all shiny and wet as he devours her, eating her out like there’s nothing else in the world that matters to him. Like he loves it, gets just as much from it as she does.

Her orgasm builds and burns and buries itself between her hips; a growing ache, a tightening spine. And it isn’t long before she’s twisting her fingers into the white of the futon’s cover beneath them, gasping and hitching, chest trembling—

Nico sucks at her clit, her cunt grinding against his mouth as she breaks open, her thighs closing against his head, her stomach tensing—

A hot wet leak that Nico licks up with a groan, chases the spasms, the twitches, the desperate sobbing hitch of her voice as she comes, head tilting back, crying out for him.

_Daddy—_

His tongue melts her, licks her back together, gathers her in his mouth and Ellie, pants, quivers, whimpers at every flat-tongued stroke he laves over her.

When she opens her eyes, there’s a dripping line, a slow crawling leak that trails from her cunt over her mound. Her hips held high enough in his grip that it drips, trailing all slow and slick as it slips towards her stomach. Nico groans, watching it, still holding her open, spread wide right beneath his mouth.

She isn’t sure if it’s her, or spit, or some mix of both, but Nico pushes two fingers through it, dragging them along the dripping path and back onto her cunt; rubbing them, slick and wet against her clit. His eyes watching it, his voice rough and wanting when he licks over her, tongue pushing in as his fingers rub her clit.

_Prett_ _iest little pussy,_ he growls, and then twists his hand and those two fingers are sinking inside of her, burying deep and long and thick inside of her; just _brushing_ the bundle of nerves inside of her before he’s slipping his fingers back out with a little twist so she can feel the width of them, his knuckles, the tips of his fingers, every inch of them before he pushes them back in again.

Ellie’s back climbs, her voice twisting out some sort of fractured _ohgod_ — the muscles in her thighs tensing, twitching to close before falling wider, held apart by his body as he lowers her a little, kissing her clit, mouthing over it as his fingers curl inside of her.

All slick and steady, rubbing against those nerves inside of her, stretching deeper only to curl again; a rhythm she gets lost in as he sucks and kisses and licks her up—

It’s too much and not enough and so good even as the pressure between her hips builds and burns brighter and hotter and makes her tremble because it’s too much it really is and—

“Come on, pretty girl,” Nico growls, rubbing harder, a third finger twisting in and making her cry out. “You’re doing so good.”

_Jesus_ , she thinks, chest trembling, his fingers hot and wide and wet, all slick-sounding inside of her every time he straightens them, pulls them back only to push them deeper, curving, rubbing… an endless, incessant rhythm she can’t surface above. Fingers scrambling, twisting into the mattress, one stroking through his hair, nails scratching his scalp, falling away to grip his forearm, bruising onto it like she can ground herself through him.

Nearly wants to tell him to stop— but every stretch of his fingers, every shift, every hot breath from his mouth, or heavy stroke of his tongue makes her body burn, cheeks pink, mouth open, hair knotting beneath her head as she arches, tenses, feels his fingers rubbing steadier, heavier, merciless—

_That’s it, baby, come on—_

Ellie sobs, some broken twist of _daddy_ and _please_ and _oh god_ and comes again, clenching around his fingers, cunt spasming as he rubs her slower, stretching his fingers inside of her like he likes how it feels just as much as she does.

It takes her slow-blinking, spine-stretched moments before her mind gathers back from the frayed, burst apart edges of her orgasm. Moments where she feels him distantly and yet, hyper-aware of him:

A slow, sloppy kiss against her cunt, a wet kiss against her mound, a hot exhalation of words she can’t catch. Mouthing up her stomach, his stubble scratching, his hand stroking out over her ass, up her spine, back down, fingers spread wide to feel each tremor still lingering in her aftershocks.

_Perfect,_ he mumbles, and _perfect_ and _so good_ and _tight_ and _baby_ and _Mine—_

All with his fingers still buried inside of her like he wants to feel every last clench of her muscles, every last quiver of her cunt.

She watches his mouth on her skin, the dark of his hair and stubble and breath on her skin full of too-heavy things she doesn’t know what to do with.

_Mine_ and _perfect_ and _pretty_ and _good_ and—

Ellie pushes weakly at his shoulders, making him lean back, letting him pull her up with him, sitting on his folded knees as his fingers slip out of her, trailing wet as they slip over her thigh, caressing up to her hip.

Ellie licks her lips, meets the dark of his shadowed, hungry eyes and kisses him, licks herself out of his mouth, tastes every bittered, sweet tang of herself; the heat of his lips, the sharpness of his teeth…

Sinks her fingers between them, curls them around his belt; thinks she enjoys that noise, that clink of metal, that hiss of leather…

Like a lead up to more, a promise of pleasure.

Works his pants open, squirms back enough to get his cock out, hand curving around the thick, heavy weight of it that makes her insides clench, her stomach twist, even just from the throb of it in her palm.

Nico tenses, his hands gripping onto her ass, groping and pulling her into him as she curves her hand around his cock, breaks her mouth away to look down, Nico’s breath hot on her temple.

It’s thick and heavy and a little terrifying, she can’t lie. What little porn she’s seen in her life… has not really prepared her for the reality of him.

There’s a drop of liquid at the tip, Ellie strokes her thumb over it, spreading the slickness along the iron-hard, silky width of his head.

Nico’s hands clench, a noise in his throat like a caught breath, pressing his lips to her cheekbone, her cheek, back up towards her temple.

She thinks about spitting, slicking her hand that way, but thinks about the way his cock looked, slick and shiny from his wet hand, covered in her release when he jerked off after fingering her.

Ellie shifts to lift up, just a little, sinking her hand between her thighs, scooping up the still wet, still leaking mess of her arousal, fingers slipping along her opening, gathering up that slippery wetness and—

“Fucking _Christ_ , Ellie—” Nico groans, watching.

Ellie wraps her wet hand around him, or nearly, her fingers don’t quite touch; strokes down, her palm slick with her own orgasm. Hand curved around the thick of him, watching, lips parted, as his cock gets heavier, hotter... watches every vein and thick inch, a tensing shift of his stomach as she strokes back up, a little twist to her hand as she crests the fat head. But as her thumb strokes over the head, she loses her grip, his cock hitting her stomach as it slips, too wide without the curve of her thumb holding him in her palm.

Her cheeks burn; she’d told him she’d done _everything else_ … and now she can’t even jerk him off right.

Embarrassed, she brings her other hand down, letting Nico hold her up, his hands bruising into her ass.

“It’s hard, you’re so thick,” she mumbles, gripping the base of him, holding his cock steady as she tries to stroke him again, twisting her wrist over the head, thinking about how he did it, his hand on his cock, coming over her stomach all sticky white.

“Jesus,” Nico laughs, but it’s more air than anything, voice strained as his forehead falls to her shoulder. “You don’t even know what you sound like, do you?”

“What?” Ellie asks, only half paying attention as she watches his cock, caught by the feel of it, the silk-covered iron weight of it in her palm. Thinks about shifting up, thinks about sinking down…

Bites her lip and thinks about the stretch, the ache, the filling up—

With her teeth in her lip, Ellie squirms in his lap, shifting higher, pressing closer—

“El—” Nico warns, holding onto her hip.

But Ellie ignores him, holds his cock in her hand but letting it rub against her stomach, winding her arm around his shoulders to press closer to him.

Nico’s hand tightens, but he doesn’t stop her.

It feels more than a little intimidating, the length of it, the weight of it against her as she strokes it, rolls her hips forward, trying to—

Nico shoves her down to the mattress, her breath leaving her in a rush, his mouth swallowing her inhale, braced above her, his mouth hard and hungry.

“Gonna kill me,” he grits out, as Ellie reaches between them again, winding a leg over his waist, angling her hips up, dragging her mouth away from his to look down and watch, to see, to grind the wet spread of her cunt against his cock. Pressing her hand along the thick of it, holding it against her cunt, a whine in her throat for the way it spreads her lips as his hips twitch forward, slipping over her and up onto her stomach.

Nico groans, a rough, low sound as if he can’t quite stop himself from doing it again, Ellie rolling her hips up to meet him; mouth parted, knowing he’s watching just the way she is. His arms tense as he holds himself up, the slow flex of his abs, the thickness of his hips, the jut of his cock as pushes forward again…

It feels fucking wonderful, every vein, every throb, the weight of it spreading her open, dragging her slick up onto her stomach before he’s pulling back, an imitation, a tease, an _almost—_

Ellie can’t take it, feels empty and wanting and impatient—

Wants to watch his cock shine as he fucks her, pulls out all that wanton, wet ache from inside of her and fuck her into satisfaction. Wants him to weigh her down and break her open, wants—

Him to unmake her in all the way he _made_ her.

She plants her feet on the mattress, trying to find just a little more leverage, to squirm up just a little more, to feel the bump, glide of that thick head of his cock bump her clit, slippery through another grind and then, then it nudges against her, right where she wants it and—

Slips past because she’s so fucking wet; whines, pressing her hand down more, to hold his cock tighter to the spread of her cunt; gripping onto the thick of his arm with her other hand to brace herself, to find more leverage, to feel the tension, the strain, the weight of him as she rolls her hips again.

The thick of his head nudges her, pushes in, a flicker of a second where there’s a stretch but his cock slips over _again_ and she swears she’s near tears—

Again, and again, she squirms and rolls and whimpers, gasps every time she gets so _close_ to that second, flicker, _almost_ stretch of his head pushing against her entrance before slipping past—

Again, and again, his cock getting wetter, a slick shine on her mound from the path his cock takes, from the roll of her hips, grinding against him, his length burning up onto her stomach on every wet glide.

It’s a little intimidating, just how big he is. Wonders just how he’s going to fit, just how much stretch, how much ache, how much he’s going to fill her up…

She hasn’t even noticed that he’s stopped moving, that he just watching her desperate, squirming body trying to roll right onto his cock. Her hands white-knuckled, dug deep in the mattress, his breath hot and rough as his stomach tenses, tightens, chest shifting as the fat head of his cock catches against her again and Ellie’s hips roll up, press down and there’s that fucking stretch—

That burn, that _almost_ push in that has her desperate and near begging—

“Please, Daddy,” she cries and isn’t ashamed for how needy she sounds, how wanting she is, how desperate she is for him to just— just _fuck me, please—_

And he’s too thick, she thinks, because there’s no way she can get do it by herself.  Not enough weight at the tip of her fingers trying to push his head inside of her; too slippery, too unsteady, trembling as she pushes the thick of him against herself.

“Ellie—” he growls, but her heart’s thudding too loud and she swears the muscles in his arm tremble a little beneath her hand…or it might just be her own hands. But, she rolls her hips up until his head is slipping out from her hand and sinks her hips down, feels his cock start to slide back over the spread of her, feels the thick head bump her fingers and presses down with shaky fingers, with a plea on her mouth, a prayer made up of, _daddy, please—_

_Please, please, daddy—_

And it burns against her, right there, and it’s slick and hot and he’s so thick she could cry with frustration as his head catches against her, her hips squirming to try to push him inside.

Fuck their height difference she thinks, trying to sink down, her fingers slipping against his cock, the stretch building, burning, and she thinks

_Please--_

He makes another sound, a guttural thing like it’s caught somewhere in his chest, somewhere between desperation and frustration and tinged with defeat as his body sinks a little lower, sinking down onto his forearms, his thigh coming up to push against the back of hers, throwing her balance off, his cock slipping deeper, tearing a noise out of her that’s louder than she expects.

“it's okay,” he hushes, gritty and rough his mouth trailing her cheek as his chest presses closer to her, lets her wrap her arm around his neck, her cheeks burning, his lips soft on her cheek. “It’s alright, I got you.”

But she’s panting and it burns a little more than she expected, even compared to three fingers, even as wet as she is, even as she tries to push him deeper, doesn’t fucking care about the burn.

“Daddy,” she whimpers, gasps, her face scrunching, scorching hot as she pushes him deeper, feeling herself stretching to fit him, an ache she hates and loves all at once. “Oh fuck…”

And there’s so much _more_ of him still left. Can feel it, in against the tip of her fingers, the stretch of his head inside of her, the inching slide of his length pushing a little deeper.

And it _hurts_ , she won’t lie, tucks her face into his neck as his hips shift a little more, but it’s not painful, not in the way a little part of her thought it might be. It hurts _good._ A stretching, aching fullness that tears noises out of her she didn’t know she could make, her cheeks burning, his hand easing out of the mattress to press against her cheek, to hold her face to his, to—

“Ellie,” he whispers, breathes out, her name like he’s pressing it into her skin, like it’s a prayer, something hallowed and holy and _his_. “ _Ellie_.”

More air than voice, more heart than heat—

And her thigh trembles against his side, his cock burning her, filling her, stretching her open and leaving her bare in a way she never even imagined it could.

And it’s _good_.

It’s so fucking _good_.

“Ellie,” he hushes, kisses her cheek, the corner of her mouth, all soft and warm on her lips. “Look at me, baby.”

And she does, breathes against his lips, so close they brush, trading air as his thumb caresses along her cheek.

Nico sinks deeper, too deep, not nearly deep enough, Ellie isn’t sure, only that his hips move in little, barely noticeable little shifts, pushing into her slowly, so slowly, like a molasses, all syrupy smooth.

He shifts a little, leaning more on one arm, reaching down between them, finding her hand, his fingertips slipping over her, sliding against her own. He moves her hand, curves it loosely around the thick of him not inside of her.

“Keep your hand here,” he orders, his voice torn, fingers wet as they bump her wrist before he’s curving his arm beneath her waist, holding her hips higher, angling her body up a little towards his.

He’s hunched over her, head dropping to kiss her again, and she can’t even think about how comfortable it is for him, because his hips roll forward a little more and Ellie feels his cock slip deeper, feels it glide over her palm, feels it throb inside of her—

And it’s thick and perfect and strange and so fucking good to feel him, above her, around her, inside of her…

To feel his mouth on hers, his lips brushing against hers as Ellie pulls in a desperate breath; her body tense at the next shift of his hips and stretching, too-thick inch.

_It’s okay,_ he whispers _, you’re doing so well, baby._

She groans, and if it’s for his words or his cock, or the ache of both together, she doesn’t know. Just knows how good it feels, how much she likes the stretch and the fullness on every shift of his hips deeper. Likes the slip of his cock in her hand until she can feel the base of him, the tense heat of his muscles against her hand as Nico stops.

He kisses her gracelessly, messily, both of them breathing too hard; their eyes locked, Nico searching her face like he’s watching every flicker of emotion that crosses her face.

He stays still, his cock throbs in her palm, the stretch of him, the fullness fades into a squirming, cheek-pinking need to move.

A desperate need to just fucking _move_.

Ellie bites her lip, squirms beneath him, gasps as his cock shifts inside of her, rubbing against her nerves. She starts to move her hand, but Nico kisses her, hard, his voice rough, _no, keep it there._

Ellie whines, wraps it back around the base of him, whimpers and scratches her nails into his shoulder, voice strained and bratty in desperation. “Move, Daddy.”

Nico’s breath puffs against her mouth, a strained entertained rush of air. “You gonna keep your hand there?”

Ellie nods, _yes, daddy._

Nico’s eyes travel over her face, and it’s another too long moment where Ellie squirms beneath him, impatient.

And then sucks in a breath when he eases his hips back slowly before pushing back into her just as steadily and making Ellie bite her lip to hold in the pitch of her voice.

Nico groans, his head dropping a little, kissing her jaw, her neck, his breath hot on her skin as he pulls back again before sinking deeper on a steady stroke in.

Her hand bumps between them and she wants to move it, wants to feel every inch of him, wants him so deep inside of her it _hurts._

But she doesn’t. Nico’s cock strokes inside of her as he pulls back, pushes in all thick and slow as honey; building a rhythm that makes her voice break out of her…

_Feel so good,_ he rumbles against her cheek, his lips slipping back to her mouth. _My pretty little girl._

Again and again, moving just enough, to make her moan, just enough to be maddening, just enough to make her ache for more.

But he stays steady, stroking as deep as he’ll let her take him, her palm soaked, the space between them slippery enough she’d be embarrassed if it wasn’t for his eyes finding hers as he braces a little higher over her. His kiss messy and more Ellie’s hitching, climbing moans than tongue and lips and teeth.

His next slow roll inside of her is a little faster, tinged a little rougher, his hips knocking into her hand. She starts to move it away, not thinking until Nico stops, hips stilling, cock hot and hard inside of her.

Ellie whines, wrapping her fist back around him, rolling her hips up to urge him on again. But he goes back to slow, goes back to steady and deep and just shy of tortuous.

But he kisses her, shifting to brace his arm a little higher beside her head, hand curving into her hair to hold her face to his. She bites his lip, because she hates him a little right now, hates him for wanting to see too much, for not letting her move her hand, for not _fucking_ her—

And then Nico’s hips tilt back before stroking right back in on one smooth, steadier thrust; knocking into her hand in short, controlled rolls of his hips. A lazy, deep stroke that makes her cry out. Voice echoing, the _daddy_ too loud, too bright, too perverse for the small space.

“Flatten your hand,” he growls. “But leave it there.”

It takes her a minute to understand because his cock is thick and long and it feels like she’s full already, the shift of him inside of her is…

Perfect.

But she does, palm slipping over the side of her cunt, fingers still feeling the slippery width of his cock soaked in her release. This time, when he thrusts forward, she feels the heat of him knocking the back of her hand and wrist, his cock pushing deeper, breaking her open on steady, deep strokes.

Her spine tenses, body lighting up, mind liquefying because he’s thick and hard and she swears she can feel every vein, every inch, the fat length of him breaking her open even as he mends the ache inside of her with every stroke. Her voice pitching higher, hitching noises, gasping inhales, broken moans.

With a broken noise in his throat, Nico curses, his hand twisting into her hair, his hips snapping forward, watching everything on her face. Every twisting, building twist of pleasure as her spine climbs, her knees pressing harder into his ribs, toes curling as pleasure jolts along her spine in bursts. Every thrust of his cock inside her is a spark, a creation of electric-tipped ions travelling along her nerves, routing out along her limbs, filling her up the way his thickness does. Until there’s no room in her body at all.

And still, she knows, there’s more of him left.

But he’s fucking deep already, his cock brushing against that bundle of nerves on every stroke inside of her, and it’s too much, can feel herself fucking dripping for how wet she is. That wet slick noise building every time he fucks into her.

Had no idea real idea it would be so fucking intense, like she’s about to fly apart and the only thing that’s holding her together is the weight of his body and the heat of his skin.

_Oh f-fuck,_ she sobs, her knees trembling against his sides, feeling every flex of his body. She swears, she swears that it’s too much, that there must be something wrong inside of her because she can’t stay still, her hand scrambling at his shoulders, his back, takes everything in herself to not move her other hand—

And nearly, nearly wants to stop because it feels—

“Wait—” she hitches, her cheeks burning as her body tenses, as his cock strokes steady and deep and merciless right against that bundle of nerves. “ _Daddy_.”

_Too much,_ she thinks. _Too much too muchtoomuch—_

“It’s okay,” Nico hushes, promises, his lips hot on her cheek, his arm tensing, holding her hips higher, pulling her into him a little more. “It’s okay.”

Ellie feels like she’s burning up, like she can’t stop moving if she wanted to, like she can’t possibly keep moving because she’s going to break open at any second and it nearly hurts with how intense that aching, building burn inside of her is.

Begging and gasping and trembling against him as he grips her tighter, his cock all slow and steady and relentless. His hand tight in her hair, his voice low-rolling, more heat and vibration than solid voice as he growls into her mouth.

_That’s it, come on, baby, come on—_

And she’s tensing, toes curling, cunt clenching around his cock, sobbing out for him as she quivers and trembles beneath him. Comes in a hot rush, a slick surge of that electric-tipped feeling in her body filling up between her hips and leaking out of her and over him.

That slick sound grows as Ellie’s cunt spasms, clenches, grips at Nico’s cock like it’s trying to milk his orgasm out of him.

He curses, and the arm he has beneath her hips tightens, his cock fucking into her, all heavy and unsteady, fucking her through the tremors of her orgasm; making her cry out, her head turning as his drops to her neck.

“Fuck,” Nico grits out, shoves up into her, once, twice and—

The twitch, the spasm of his cock inside of her is…

Perfect, weird, wonderful, so fucking strange—

To feel that thick heat, that slickness, the rush of it inside of her, the slowing pulses as he fills her up and it’s—

Perfect, weird, wonderful…

So fucking hot she wants to do it again.

His cock pulses, his arm nearly too tight around her waist, his heart thumping in time with hers, an erratic, frantic beat. Their skin sweaty and slick, sticking together as their chests shift for air. To gather back the bits of themselves scattered in their orgasm.

Ellie swallows, willing her heart to settle, feeling a lazy pulse of his cock inside of her as his arm tightens, as he leans back onto his haunches and pulls her up with him, her hand still trapped between them.

Nico’s arm comes off her, his fingers leaving her hair to cup her feet, to curve them over his thighs so she's kept a little above his lap,  cock not quite buried inside of her.

“Move your hand now,” he mutters against her mouth, stroking both his hands up her spine, fingers spread wide as he pulls her chest into his.

She still has her stupid shirt on, she realises as she wraps her arms around her shoulders, and he still has his pants on. But he’s kissing her lazily, still tinged with hunger; brushing lips, sharing air, his eyes searching her face and she really can’t bring herself to care about her shirt or his pants, or anything at all that isn’t him, really.

“Okay?” he mumbles against her mouth, his hand stroking her spine.

Ellie nods, pushing herself closer, dropping her head down onto his shoulder as he wraps his arms tighter around her, holding her close, his cock shifting, still thick inside of her.

There’s an aching moment of clarity, as her heart slows, as the thump bump of his pulse in his chest and neck ease alongside hers… as she breathes in cold air and sex and salt and feels the stick of their skin, the throb of his cock still stretching her, even softening, even slick inside of her…

As it goes quiet, just Nico’s hands on her skin, the city around them no more than some distant dream.

Or reality, maybe, and this is the dream.

That she has no idea how she’s going to survive this. How they’re going to survive this.

It’s too much. Too real. Too intense.

 

Too _good_.

 

Nico’s face tucks into her neck, his breath hot as he exhales, his fingers bumping slowly along every notch of her spine.

Desperate for something to say, to chase that heavy, strangely terrifying weight out of her chest, Ellie says the first thing she thinks of.

“You’re right, by the way.”

Nico grunts into her neck: “About what _?”_

“Parquet flooring really does turn girls on.”

His laughter, sudden and deep and rumbling against her chest makes her smile; turning her face into his shoulder, Ellie’s laughter chases his.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end of part one, next chapter we'll start Nico POV's as well as Ellie, and more of his, uh, business will come to light as well as family drama! Hope you'll stick with me through as we get into all that's still to come. 
> 
> Would love to hear what you think about the story so far! Thanks for reading!


	16. Part Two, I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're starting part two now, which will be dual POV as we get more into Nico's life and how that is going to impact Ellie and their relationship. Just a reminder that he is part of some bad things as this story does go into organized crime and all that entails. I don't think there are any major triggers or anything, just a bit of violence and stuff, but if anyone is concerned you can find me at sweetandsure.tumblr.com or just pop a question here in the comments. 
> 
> So yeah, this chapter is sort of...an intro chapter into Nico's head, so it's like not all that exciting, but lets you adjust to him, I think. Hopefully lol.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me and let me know what you think!

 

* * *

Part Two, I

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

                There have only been a few moments in his life where he’s questioned himself.

Where the decisions he’s made, the actions he’s taken, the _choices_ —

Because he believes in that most of all. That when you make a choice it’s yours to own. You live it, deal with it, adapt to it; that most of all, you don’t regret it because it’s your fucking choice and you _own it._

But she’s—

She’s made him question himself more in the last three months than he has in the entire thirty-four years of his fucking _life_.

He remembers once, in the rundown fucking middle school he went to with tired teachers and students more concerned with what was outside the windows than anything inside of them, being asked what he wanted out of life.

An easy question, an angry principal; a steady drip of blood out of his nose, a red-smeared, toothy grin: _What do I want out of life?_

He’d swallowed copper, chased the blood from his lips and laughed: _Fucking everything._

He’d been fourteen and looked more like eighteen, looked less like a student day by day and felt less like one by the hour.

But still, he’d laughed, ignored the split in his lip, the swelling of a cut along his cheekbone, the throb of his nose—

_I want fucking everything._

And it hadn’t changed, not in the twenty years since then. He still wants fucking _everything_.

It’s just his definition of _everything_ has changed, shrunk, fit itself into the shape of a scrawny seventeen-year-old bit of girl who’s got his attitude, dimples, grin, eyes and he’s—

 _Aching_ with how much fucking _more_ he wants.

_I’ll take everything you fucking give me._

And now, now she’s stretched out, fucked-out, leaking come, and that fourteen-year-old boy in him, the one that knows that copper taste better than he’s ever known anything as sweet as her… sits in his mind and on his tongue and he thinks of the things he’d do to keep her.

Everything. He’d do everything. Anything. Whatever he has to.

 

So, he makes choices.

 

Slips back inside of her as the humming red and white-yellow glowing, fluorescent storefront, street lights outside the windows paint her into something more like stained-glass, or less poetic than that: a porn-frame, a seedy motel, a fantasy girl being debauched by a man that shouldn’t ever touch her.

That’s probably more accurate. Because if anything’s true, he shouldn’t ever touch her.

But her gasp, that tremble, the too-tight clench of her cunt around his cock is worth more than whatever fragments of morality he still has. They’d be worth more than a whole man’s morality if he were being honest. Would gladly suffer whatever fracture of morals it would take to keep her, just like this: sweat-slicked, pink-cheeked, begging for him in the sweetest voice he’s ever heard.

_Daddy—_

And God, he thinks, he’ll take whatever punishment comes just so long as he gets to keep her. Gets to touch her. Gets to pull those noises out of her; every hitch, every quiver, every blunt-nailed scratch along his skin, the nape of his neck, the tense of his shoulders…

Wants to unravel her and find where they match up. Wants to fill her up and watch it seep out.

Wants to leave her marked up, dirtied up, _his._

And for every inch of him that says _she is, she already is—_ is a louder voice saying, _not yet, not really, not enough—_

And that’s the one that wins now, the one that makes him lean back to watch the slick of his cock stretching her open, to press a kiss to her ankle, to watch the strained-tremble in her thigh, the sight of her body as she moans and quivers and cries out for him.

There’s nothing hotter, he thinks, then knowing she’s watching, just the way he is. Fighting her body’s need to squirm, that spine climbing, head tilting roll of her body—

She gives into it, loses herself in a back-arching gasp, a tensing, grasping clench of her cunt around him; arm strained above her head—

_Oh, f-fuck_

Before she comes back together, head tilting up, lashes dark, watching the flushed pink and soaked spread of her cunt as the thick of his cock pushes into her, spreads her… slides in, comes out fucking _gleaming_.

Nico watches her face just as much as he watches the slide of himself inside of her, but Ellie can’t watch long before her body betrays her again, lost to that staticky build of an orgasm, that liquid-electric burn. Her spine climbing, her chest trembling, her hand scratching, straining against the wall behind her head as the other tenses, trembles, slips against his cock.

And, he thinks, he’s not ever really _fucking_ her.

Ellie told him once she thought he was like those trashy romance books, those _self-made millionaires, billionaires, CEOs at twenty-five._

Can’t help but think if he were what she said, that if this were some corny romance novel, this slow, easing, electric-liquid fucking would be called lovemaking.

Making _love_.

A too-hot, too-intense, too-slow sort of fucking that’s fucking frustrating just as much as its fucking amazing.

The books might call it that, but he knows the truth of it.

She’s fucking tiny and he’s fucking _terrified_ he’s going to hurt her.

“Hand, Ellie,” he grunts as her hand slides wetly over that tense tendon between thigh and sex, to try to grip onto the hand he has spread on her inner thigh, holding her open and wide and spread for him.

Ellie whines, but her hand moves back; cupping the side of her cunt, the curve between her index finger and thumb a reminder every time he sinks his cock inside of her, every time he feels the side of her fingers brushing him, not to go too deep.

To stay slow and steady and smooth; to keep her spread and slick and strained—

Ellie whimpers something that sounds like _fuck, Daddy,_ a frustrated, strung-out, near _bratty_ sound that makes his stomach clench, his head spin, a noise in his chest like a grunt caught on a _fuck—_ makes him pull her hips a little higher, her calf on his shoulder, his hand gripping onto her ass cheek—

 _This,_ he thinks, _is closer to fucking._

Ellie cries out, spine climbing higher, her knuckles hitting his pelvis, her thumb brushing along the root of him as he fucks her a little steadier, stroking those nerves inside of her that makes her thigh twitch, her toes curl, her too-little, too-cute tits quiver.

He fucking _loves_ it.

And when she comes, and her cunt clenches so tight that it nearly _hurts_ , he follows her over the edge of an orgasm like a fucking newly-pubescent teenage boy spilling into his own palm. Eagerly, desperately, already wanting more.

He fucking _loves_ it _._

But he leans down, folds her in two and kisses her— and it’s with a stubbled jaw and a heavy mouth and she’s sweeter than anything he knew back when he _was_ a newly-pubescent teenage boy. And there’s nothing like the spasm, clench, quiver of her cunt around his cock, milking him, dragging out every last slowing pulse of come…even if it takes everything in him not to push her hand out of the way and grind against her.

Fill her up, pump her full, make It hurt, just a little.

Eventually. Maybe. If he can get over that fear of hurting her.

Which is stupid, isn’t it? Logically, _biologically_ he knows that her body can take him… can tell himself all the logical facts about arousal and depth and stretch and what a woman can _take,_ but—

But her knuckles are sharp points between them, her hand tight, gripping onto the side of her sex, her body tense and loose all at once, and it keeps him still, keeps him aware of her beneath him in ways he’s never really been before. Aware of every clench of her body, every barely restrained shift, tick, hitch of his hips trying to push further into her.

It’s—

Fucking frustrating as much as it’s fucking amazing.

The world blinks out, becomes nothing more than salt-slick skin and heartbeat-breaths; nothing more than him and her and all the ways they fit together and don’t, all at once.

It’s—

Something.

Ellie’s lips are hot and damp on his cheek, his on her jaw, his eyes closed, too breathless to kiss, too unbound to think, too fucking full of feeling to focus on anything but her and not burying himself deeper. And deeper still.

But her arm unlocks from where it was strained and tense and braced against the wall behind her, pushes through his hair, nails sharp and blunt on his scalp, a tremor in the tips that she buries into the nape. 

Her other hand, the one still caught between them, slips free; fingers wet, pressing against the tense of his lower abdomen; he can imagine she can feel the forced stillness, the rigidity of his hips.

But her hand slides upwards, over the tense of his stomach, his chest, his shoulder; leaves a streak of slickness on the path towards his shoulder; just feeling him. Her hand slowing, pausing over his heart like she’s checking to see if he’s affected as she is.

He is, he knows.

Nico turns his head, a soft-mouthed search for her lips, to kiss her into a different sort of breathlessness; a lazy one, a sugared one, a honey-soaked moment that feels out of time and place.

He thinks he likes these kisses best: her mouth warm and soft and lips swollen from his and her own teeth; every failed attempt to hold the pitch of her pleasure in, every sink of white into plump-pink.

He isn’t entirely sure he knows what kind of kisses these are. Just that he likes them, wants more of them. Would gladly wake up each day just for one more.

(And one more and one more.)

Ellie wraps her arms around his neck, their breath easing, their kisses slow, their hearts pumping in the same slowing, bone-thumping beat that feels like it’s all rooting out from the depth of his cock inside of her. Every pump of their heart, a throb, a pulse-beat awareness of his cock inside of her, of her body beneath his…

He doesn’t want to pull out, but there’s a hitch of her breath, a cold rush of air when she winces as he shifts a little lower to kiss her neck, a flicker of tension in her body that strings him tight, reminds him a little of who they are and who he is and everything he _shouldn’t do._

He told her the truth of it that day in the elevator that she— that this, _them,_ was _the first time in my life I questioned what kind of man I am._

Because he’s known for a long time what kind of man he is and he’s never had any issue claiming it, owning it, accepting it…

But she—

It’s a cold reminder of reality, that little wince on her face, that shock of cold air. Makes her seem smaller, younger—

Curdles in his stomach, an itch along his insides.

So, he pushes up to brace over her, looks down at her when she blinks up at him, all wide-eyed and pinked cheeked and looking—

Young.

He leans back, because he might be far more morally corrupt than he ever thought, but like fuck he’s not going to _watch_.

He knows what kind of man he is, and _nice_ isn’t it.

Ellie’s quiet, but she’s watching too, he knows, moving to prop herself up on her elbows, as he shifts back on his knees, his hand on her thigh, holding her open, watching his cock slide out, still soaked and shiny, still looking too big for her body.

He isn’t sure which is more appealing, the red of her face as she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, eyes glued to the sight… or the _actual_ sight of his cock slipping out of her.

Nico brushes his hands along the inside of her thighs, enjoying the last few trembles still lingering; brushes his thumbs over the inner curve of where her thigh meets her sex; rubbing one thumb over the soaked, flushed-pink mess he made of her.

Ellie twitches, pulls in a breath, her cheeks pink and lashes heavy as he brushes his thumb along the edge of her entrance, watching the first seep of his come, sticky-white leaking over pink.

“Christ,” he burrs, his thumb pressing closer, holding her open a little more; a slow leak of come, a twitch of her hips, a spasm of her cunt gripping at nothing like her body wants him back inside of her.

He grunts a breath, something wanting and desperate and hungry, watching the slow seep and wishing he hadn’t looked at all because he knows it’s a sight he shouldn’t get used to.

And probably one he’ll never forget.

“Would it be creepy to take a picture?” he asks, resisting the urge to run his thumb along the drip of it, to tuck it back inside of her. To watch it all over again.

 Ellie makes a noise, her back thumping against the mattress, her hands coming up to cover her face as her foot comes up to knock into his shoulder, shoving at him. “Shut up.”

Nico grins, catching her ankle, lifting her leg to press a kiss to the bone, her calf, the inside of her knee, sinking back over her; their skin slippery with sex and sweat and come.

“No?” he murmurs, kissing between her breasts. “That’s mean. I’d make it my background.”

Ellie flushes, even as she laughs. Her body twitching as his teeth scrape her nipple before he presses a kiss to the peak of it; another on her chest, her neck, the side of her jaw as he mutters into her skin:

“But then, I’d probably spend way too much time jerking off to it.”

“You’re so embarrassing,” Ellie groans, even though she’s the one turning red at his words and he’s not ashamed at all.

“Embarrassing?” he growls, nipping at her jaw. “Honest, more like.”

He braces on his forearms, enjoying the slide of her sex against his stomach, letting her curl her legs around him, her toes cold and small against his lower back. He looks down at her, brushing a hand through the hair sticking to her damp, flushed cheek, pressing a kiss to it.

“Besides, it’s not like I’ll get to see it again.”

Ellie frowns up at him, looking wrecked and fucked and so pretty it hurts a little; her bottom lip soft and wet and pouty.

“Why not?”

He lifts an eyebrow, surprised by the question. “Because condoms are a good idea.”

“I’m on the pill,” she frowns. “And, you know… it’s not like I’ve been with anyone else…”

 _Right_ , he thinks, and feels his cock twitch; _first time._

But he’s trying _really_ hard not to think about it.

“I wasn’t worried about that,” he says, kissing the frown line between her brows, the tip of her nose. “I Just think we should be… careful.”

Ellie looks away, her nose scrunching. “I know. Don’t worry.”

He wasn’t. But doesn’t know to tell her he already knew she was on the pill and that’s the only reason he let this happen.

(And that’s a fucking reach, he has no idea if he would have been able to stop himself even if he hadn’t known. He hopes so.)

They fall silent, Ellie’s lashes all dark and soft beneath her eyes, long inky shadows stretching long as the red and coloured lights outside the window flicker over them lazily. She’s looking down, her fingers touching a spot on his shoulder, nearly hidden along the shadows his muscles make; he doesn’t have to guess what she’s looking at.

“Knife,” he says quietly. “From a fight when I was sixteen.”

Her eyes dart back to his, a little wide, her body tensing. “A _knife—_ ”

He laughs, leaning down to kiss the look on her face, nipping at her bottom lip. “I’m fine, don’t worry about it.”

He rolls off her, leaning on his elbow, bringing her hand to a spot on his arm; doesn’t think he’ll tell her this one is from a gunshot, though.

“I have a few scars, sweetheart, it’s no big deal.”

Another, on his forearm, a ragged metal pipe, swung from a desperate man’s last attempt to stay alive.

There’s more, nicks and scrapes, some more serious than others. Most from fighting, most old and as much a part of his history as any tattoo someone could get to mark their past.

Ellie looks at their fingers, hers light and soft, brushing over another old mark, looking oddly upset by it.

He realises she probably hasn’t really seen him in such direct light before, even if it is tinted in shifting, fluorescent colours.

He huffs a laugh, rolling onto his back, pulling her into him by her hand; she curls against him, her cheek warm on his chest, her heart a steady thumping thing against his ribs as she curves her leg over his waist. Their skin coloured by the lights, streaks of it, lazy bleeding colours tinged even brighter in the pale shine of her hair as her strokes his hand through it, watching it slide through his palm.

“Are they all from fighting?” she asks, her voice quiet, her fingers on the line of white skin, the scraping pass of a bullet along his bicep.

It feels odd, and he thinks it’s because he isn’t sure the last time someone touched it, but part of him knows it’s not just that. It’s a careful touch, a curious touch, the small, soft of her fingers…

It’s not just the small, soft touch, he knows. It’s the small, soft of the girl. The gentle, too light touch of her small fingers on his side, like she can uncover his past, his secrets, all the things he hasn’t told her…

Nico pulls her arm, pulls her over his lap, feels her slippery and still leaking as she straddles him, looking down at him, her face painted the same shifting colours her body is.

Ellie blinks down at him, tongue wetting her lips, her head tilting, just a little before her nose scrunches, her hips twitching a little.

“Weird,” she mumbles, and it isn’t hard to guess what she’s talking about; he has to hold himself back from thinking about pushing inside of her just to keep her filled up with him.

It’s not a very healthy thought, but he wants it all the same.

There are things to say, he knows, they’re all there in his head: _tell me you still want this. Tell me you don’t regret it. Tell me I didn’t hurt you. Tell me I’m not going to hurt you._

_Promise me you won’t hate me for all the things I’m taking from you._

The noise of the street, the city— The _world_ outside of the bubble they exist in when it’s just them alone, bleeds into their quiet, fracturing it, piece by piece.

Nico thinks, _say something, anything—_

But all he can do is look at her and wonder if he’s not having some fever dream… if he’s not just in his shower, a hand on his cock, a girl beneath his eyelids, a perversion in his chest that he gnaws on daily, holding himself back by sinews only.

But Elle leans forward, and when her lips touch his, soft and warm, it’s like it’s a ghost of a kiss, a memory of one lingering; like she’s just as full of words and questions and worries as he is that there’s no room for anything else.

It’s—

He doesn’t know. It’s something aching and painful and too much to think about.

She curves on top of him, her knees tucked up around his sides, her head beneath his chin, her heart slow and her skin soft and her weight nothing at all for him to bear.

He strokes her skin, her hair, lets her body ease and her heart slow to a lazy beat on top of his. Tries to ignore the city, the noises, the push of reality trying to slip through the cracks of the windows like the whistling leak of a cold draft.

(Like the cold air outside of his shower, his jaw tight, his shame bright.)

“Are you hungry?” he asks instead, as he feels the edges of his stomach tighten as they lie there. Ellie nods, her smile against his throat.

“Starving.”

 

 

 

 

                By the time they get back to the loft, Ellie’s yawning and blinking heavily, and even he feels worn out. (Stuffed on Chinese food, eaten half-naked on that flat and uncomfortable futon. A moment that stitched up all his worries with dimpled cheeks smiling around chopsticks, laughter salt-bright and tasting like chicken and grease.)

But he’s still strangely exhausted, emotionally wiped and ready to climb into bed next to her.

They brush their teeth, strip down in the dark, and he thinks, for a moment, about fucking her again just because he _can,_ because he _gets to_ — but he holds himself back, no matter how appealing the idea of fucking a sleepy Ellie is.

But of course, by the time Ellie’s breathing deeply, leg curved over his stomach, her cheek soft on his chest, and he’s near the edge of unconsciousness…his phone rings, vibrating and glowing bright on the side table.

He debates not answering for longer then he should. And it’s the fact that he debates it at all that has him twisting to reach for it.

“’Lo?” he mumbles quietly, looking down at the top of Ellie’s head.

“Found a man a where he shouldn’t be,” Liam says quietly into his ear like he’s trying to be just as quiet as Nico is. “Thought you might want to see it.”

 “Where are you?” he asks, frowning, already easing himself out from beneath Ellie, brushing a hand through her hair, pushing it away from her face as she curls, frowns, shifting into the empty warm spot he left behind.

“Trinity.”

Nico stops, his hand on her cheek, his body going still.

“I’ll be there in ten.”

 

 

                Nico parks along the south side of the campus, down a side street and far enough away that it’s a few minutes walk along the outer edges of Trinity’s sprawling campus. Careless about the cold he focuses on ignoring the little ache in his chest at the last look back at Ellie asleep in his bed.

He pushes the thoughts away, stuffs down the guilty feeling for leaving her tonight, of all nights; eyes peeled as he takes in the quiet, moderately well-lit campus. He knows there are security guards, though at this time of night they’re mostly inside or closer to each building. It’s not hard to slip past them—

Ellie does it all the time, he thinks. And then thinks of how he’s going to tell her that she has to stop unless he’s there to pick her up.

He wonders if he could put an alarm on her window, annoyed the fact she’s on the ground floor all while acknowledging how much it’s benefitted him so far.

He has to hold in his smile, thinking about every time he’s watched her cross the campus field towards him… and then curses himself, shoving the girl and the memory away again.

He’s fucked, he knows.

He tracks the signal from Liam’s phone, finding him leaning against a building on the north side, closer to the dormitory in a way that makes his stomach tighten.

He’s smoking, eyes on the building, not saying anything as Nico approaches. Nicking the cigarette from the younger man’s fingers, Nico tosses it to the ground, grinding it beneath his boot.

“I told you those things will kill you,” he mutters, looking over the quiet, street-light lit road, the tree-lined field casting long shadows, making it seem darker than the average New York street. “He still there?”

Liam nods, stuffing his hands into his jacket, the collar turned up, blowing out a final plume of white smoke before he speaks. “Yeah, he’s been edging the property for a while, thinking he’s just checking the security guards, which, to be honest, suck ass.”

Nico frowns, waiting for more.

“They circle like once, maybe, an hour, which honestly, no wonder your girl sneaks out, it ain’t hard.”

He already knew that, of course, the security is shit, and he’s more than a little angry at himself for not buying the security company yet, just for his own peace of mind.

“You think he’s been here before?”

Liam shakes his head, mouth twisting down a little. “Nah, he’s being way too cautious. My guess he’s been sent to find out where she’s been. You said she didn’t work this week, yeah?”

Nico nods.

“Could be that the Russian is curious where she’s at. Maybe making sure she’s still here.”

“She’s enrolled, of course she’s still here,” he huffs, but it barely leaves his mouth before his mind is saying: _except she’s not just any student, and Zhurov knows that. Probably knows she’s your daughter and if needed, you wouldn’t hesitate to pull her out._

Liam shrugs. “I don’t know, just sayin’.”

“Alright,” he sighs, long, his breath puffing a little in front of him in the cold. “Let’s see how close he gets.”

“You don’t want to take him?”

Nico shakes his head. “No, I’d rather Zhurov think I have no idea he’s here at all. At least for now.”

Liam nods towards the field. “He lights up every twenty or so minutes. Chain smoker. Bet we could grab a butt and see if he pops up in the system.”

Nico glances at him, surprised at the suggestion, his lips twisting into a smirk at the boy beside him. “Not just a street punk anymore, are you?”

“Fuck off,” Liam huffs quietly, but he’s failing at hiding his smile.

 

                The shadow of the man, lingering beneath the trees that line Trinity’s field, glows for a brief, red-tinged second in the flare of a lighter, an inhale, a drag of glowing embers. And then fades back into shadows.

They’ve seen it three times now.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, his breath puffing a little in the cold. He’s tired and all he wants to do is go back to the bed and the girl he left in it. “Call it in.”

Liam glances at him, his brows tilting up. “Call it in, really? That’s what you want to do?”

The surprise on the boy’s face does nothing to dampen the anger and irritation in him. _Not at fucking all,_ he thinks, _I want to bash the fucker’s head in._

But he’s supposed to be _smart_ , isn’t he?

You don’t get where he is by violence and threats … or at least, not _just._

“Call it in,” he says again, keeping his voice carefully blank. “Act like a student, some rich prick’s kid worried about the man hiding in the bushes.”

Liam huffs a quiet laugh, pulling out his phone. Turning away from the street as the phone lights up a pocket of space into a dim blue glow.

“You sure you don’t want to take him?” he asks, his thumb paused, hesitating over the dial button.

“If I take him, Zhurov will know that I’m aware of him. I’m not ready to send that message. Not till I know why he’s here,” Nico explains, looking out over the dark street. “So, I can’t touch the fucker… but, I can make his men look fucking incompetent.”

He leans his head back against the wall, eyes closing. “Call it in.”

_Hey, uh, ma’am? I’d like to report a man on my campus— no, no ma’am. I’m at Trinity Prep. No, ma’am, he’s been hiding from them when they come round. He’s like, really close to the girl’s dormitory. Yes, ma’am, thank you._

 

 

 

 

                By the time Nico gets home, he’s got four cigarette butts in a weed baggy that Liam shook out onto the ground with a huff before handing over, and a headache pulsing between his temples. Two nights with less sleep than he should have is nothing new, but for some reason he’s irritated more than normal, and he imagines it has something to do with the girl in his bed and how much he didn’t want to leave.

But it eases as he slips into bed next to her, shushing her little, frowning mumble at his cold body curving up behind hers.

He swears he’s out before his head hits the pillow, his arm curving over her waist, her hair in his nose and—

 

 

 

 

                And wakes the next morning to a weight on his lap, to a minty-fresh mouth on his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.

The weight shifts, a chill on his skin where the sheets don’t cover, a hand braced on his chest, a squirming weight on his lap…

Wakes a little more to the feeling of a slippery heat against his cock, a rocking, grinding weight made of—

“Wake up,” Ellie whispers, kissing his jaw again, her lips brushing his stubble like she likes the feeling. “Come on, Daddy, wake up.”

He grunts, his hands finding her thighs, braced over him, her cunt sliding along his cock, her hips rocking slowly like she isn’t even aware she’s doing it.

He blinks, reaches up to scrub a hand over his face, up into his hair, tucking it behind his head to prop it up a little more to look at the girl in his lap.

Ellie’s naked, her hair still mussed from sleep, wild and bright in the sunlight. Her nipples hard and peaked, her skin pebbled in the colder air out of the sheets; a little tremor in her hands braced on his chest.

There’s a little flush on her cheeks, but he thinks it’s more from a quick face wash then it is from arousal.

He guesses. He could be wrong; her hips shifting, in little, trying-not-to hitches, her stomach tense as she tries to hold herself still. Sex spread heavy and hot and wet over the hardness of his cock lying on his stomach.

Very wet.

“Aren’t you a fuckin’ sight to wake up to,” he mutters, eyes roaming over her.

Ellie flushes, and there, that’s her blush, even as she’s wet and leaking over him. Even as it’s obvious she slipped out of bed, brushed her teeth, rinsed her face, peeled back the sheets and climbed on top of him. 

“You’re usually up before me,” she says, looking down, her teeth sinking into her lip, the length of his cock hard on his stomach, the spread of her covering so little its thrilling and terrifying all at once.

Her hips twitch again, a little roll he can’t miss. A shine left behind that makes his cock throb with the memory of how it feels to be inside of her.

“Am I?” he says like he isn’t itching to move too; to push inside of her, to fill her up, to—

“Haven’t noticed.”

It’s a lie. He likes how she looks in his bed. He’s noticed every time.

Her toes curl, ease, curl again, tucked under and wiggling beneath his thighs. Her legs twitch as she all but pouts when he doesn’t move.

Fucking _pouts._

“Did you need something, sweetheart?” he drawls, has to hold himself back for the ache she puts inside of him. A desperate, hungry thing that claws at his chest, his stomach, want and need and guilt and lo—

Yeah, he knows. He’s fucked.

“Come on, daddy,” she whines, dropping forward, her cunt grinding a little heavier against him. A breathy, hitch of a noise pressed into his neck—

It takes everything in him not to move, to not flip them over and fuck inside of her. To not fuck her like he wants to: hard and rough and as desperate as she makes him feel.

“Or did I wear you out yesterday?”

Nico blinks, her words slow to register, quick to land; teasing, wanting, _goading._

He laughs, a smile stretching across his face. “Wear _me_ out?” he repeats, as she leans back, her face flushed, her lips bitten red. A picture of fucking perversion. He didn’t know it was possible to hate something and love something all at once. “I figured you’d be sore. I was being nice.”

Ellie shakes her head, a little _nuh-uh_ falling out of her mouth as she shifts over him, a slow, slick little rock of her cunt over his cock.

“Are you sore?” he forces out, trying to stay still, to not grip her hips and urge her into a heavier grind.

She shrugs, biting her lip, her eyes on his cock, not even really paying attention to him.

“Ellie,” he says, his voice harder, demanding; makes her eyes dart up to his like she forgot she was supposed to be talking to him. “Are you sore?”

She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, leans forward, presses her lips to his in a sweet little kiss, squirming down against him, cunt slippery and hot and fucking distracting.

“I want to,” she mumbles, nips his jaw, his neck, her nails, blunt and sharp in his skin as she leans back, rocking now, stomach tense and shifting as her lips part, her lashes long and dark as she grinds; her cunt sliding along his shaft, back and forth from the flushed tip of his head along the thick of him, as much as she can cover in each rolling grind. “Please, Daddy.”

 _Brat_ , he thinks, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the sight of her; it’s fucking impossible not to move. Sits up only enough to wrap an arm around her waist, to hold her still as he shifts back a little on the bed, to lean a little more on the pillows, to get a little better view before reaching for her feet, curving his hands around them to lift them, to curve them over his thighs, shifting her up and holding them there. Her knees spread a little more, a tremble along the inside of them as she rebalances a little higher above him than before.

Ellie’s breath hitches, eyes on him like she expected him to do more, but when he doesn’t, when all he does is lift a brow, she frowns, her bottom lip pushing out.

 “If you want something, princess, go ahead.”

For a second, he thinks she won’t do it, that she’ll whine and he’ll give in because he’s already seconds from taking over, but one hand slips over his stomach and her fingers brush the flushed head of his cock, right where her cunt can’t quite reach, not without moving forward.

A curious little touch, rubbing the shine at the top, drawing one finger a little off of him to watch the string of it, a sticky little rope between his tip and her finger.

 _Jesus,_ he thinks, watching her face, the tint to her cheeks, the mess of her hair…wonders where the fuck she came from, really, because how could something so sweet come from him?

But then Ellie’s shifting, thighs tensing, lifting up a little more, her fingers sliding to cup the weight of his cock in one hand, to hold it higher, angling it in a way that lets her rub up against the head, rolling over it, moaning a little as it spreads her when she grips it, feeling it bump against her clit on every grind.

He grips her feet, thinks he should finger her open, should help ease her into it, but he’s stuck silent watching her.

 _Finger her_ , he thinks, _make sure she can take you—_

But she’s kneeling over him, a little quiver in her body, like a shiver made of want and need and hesitation even as she grips his cock, even as she bites her lip hard enough it looks like it has to hurt, even as her legs tremble—

Even as she pushes the head of his cock to the tightness of her entrance.

And she’s wet and hot and slippery and he’s fucking weak _, so fucking weak—_

Her breath hitches, the first little sink down, not even an inch, a wince on her face, her hand tightening on his cock, a tremble in her body and he thinks, _stop her—_

_Stop her._

But she sinks down a little more, an unconscious little roll of her body onto him, her eyes closing, her nails blunt and sharp in his abdomen.

She makes a noise, a rush of an exhale that shakes her body, a quiver in the small peaks of her chest as he sinks inside of her, that first inch of his head, spreading her, opening her, breaking into warmth and muscle tight with want, slick with need.

It feels fucking amazing. A fucking _inch_.

 _Daddy,_ she whines, and Nico grips her hips, holds her steady; her hand coming away from his cock as he steadies her. Her fingernails sharp in his skin, one hand wet, her fingers slippery from holding his cock to herself.

“You’re okay,” he hushes, “Just like that.”

Slowly, so slowly it’s an agony and ecstasy all at once; every aching inch, every syrupy-smooth roll; watches her face twist as she chases pleasure to ease the ache of him opening her up, stretching her open, filling her up in the nicest of ways.

His stomach tenses, his thighs, his body strained to stay still and let her chase her own pleasure, to not take over and rock her into it, to not take over and push her against his bed and make her scream for him.

He likes watching her, thinks he could get off, _has_ gotten off just to Ellie getting off. (On his office floor, her hands beneath her skirt, her taste all sticky-sweet on his tongue after, chasing it off her fingers like a parched man desperate for a fucking drink.)

And finally, finally she’s sitting as low as she can go with her feet curled over his thighs, nearly all the way down, her cunt tight, her muscles gripping at him…

She untucks her feet, her nails scraping harder into his skin; blunt little points of pain that he barely registers as she tries to sink down a little more.

“Ellie—” he chokes, his hands tightening on her waist, bruising in to hold her still, his heart thumping in his chest, and body strained, just like hers is.

She doesn’t say anything, reaches for his hand, worming her fingers into his grip. A silent, urging push to ease his grip; her fingers slippery, still a little wet, pushing at his palm. A noise in her chest that’s desperate and whiny, twisting into a _let go—_

_Wanna feel you._

And he’s fucking _weak._

Ellie braces herself when his grip eases, folding their fingers together, feeling her grip on, her chest hitch, her thighs trembling as she sinks down those last little inches. Pauses, eyes clenched shut, pulls in a too-quick breath that makes her chest tremble before she sucks in another, holding it in as her body tightens, thighs tensing, her hand tightening on his as sinks down again and again…

Easing, torturous, _perfect…_ until she finally, finally rests against his lap; toes digging, curving beneath his thighs, knees shaking as she holds herself still.

So fucking still.

He isn’t sure he’s breathing, watching her face, her body, the shifting, micro-expressions that cross her face. Ecstasy and agony, just like the feel of her around him.

Every heartbeat rooting out from the pulse-throb of his cock inside of her. Every quiver of her cunt, every spasm grip of her muscles. Every second feels stretched out, melted, pulled and sticky-sweet like taffy on a hot summer day.

But Ellie breathes out, fingernails easing out of his skin, her stomach tensing, her hips shifting in tiny little micro-hitches like her body’s trying to adjust, to find more space for him inside of her.

He’s kind of amazed he even fucking _fits_ if he were being honest. No matter how many times he reminds himself that he knows he can, the sight of it is enough to strip him of logic.

Ellie touches her stomach, and he isn’t sure why he finds that so fucking hot, but he does; watching her press lightly, hesitantly, breathing out.

“See,” she pants, eyes flicking up to his, an unsteady, pleased-with-herself smile on her face. “I told you I could take you.”

He laughs, or tries to, comes out a choked, breathless huff of strained humour, too caught on the clench of her, the too-tight grip of cunt, the flutter of muscles, the heat inside of her.

He’s kind of afraid that if she moves at all he’s going to come. Strung too tight on the sight of her, the feel of her. The fucking _reality_ of her.

She’s his, he knows. Knows that fucking smile: cocky, proud, fucking _gloating_. Dimpled and obnoxious and so much better on her fucking face than his.

“Yeah,” he chokes out, stroking his hand over her side, down her thigh, watching the width of it... isn’t too sure when he’s going to get over how much he likes their size difference; if he ever will.

Another little perversion, another little kink he didn’t know he had. (Or maybe never did, and it’s just her in her entirety that does it to him.)

Can’t help but wonder, as she presses her hand against her stomach, face twisting as she squirms a little, an _oh fuck_ falling out of her mouth… if she knows, that for all she’s a fucking tiny thing next to him, she’s got every ounce of power _over_ him.

It annoys him as much as it doesn’t; makes him want to ruin her beneath him, over him, around him. Wants to wreck her for anyone else. Wants to leave her so full of himself that there’s no question she’s fucking his. Blood. Body. Cunt. Heart.

But, he can’t.

So he pulls her down and kisses her until he can feel her relaxing over him until her body is as liquid-loose as the slip of her cunt, tiny little shifts of her body, not able to stay still.

Holds her against his chest and rocks her into an orgasm that makes her cry out against his cheek, makes her sink every sobbing hitch of desperate, aching noises into his neck; one hand knotted in her hair, the other gripping onto her ass. Her nails in his shoulders, a too hot, too close, too slow sort of fucking that aches as it builds and builds and builds as slow and thick as molasses between them until it cleaves his chest, breaks him open…

 

 

Love-making, he thinks, is a sweet name for a desperate act.

 

 

* * *

 

 

               

 

                If he could date his days now, he thinks they should be B.E and A.E, a little divide in the path of his life.

Before Ellie.

After Ellie.

Before Ellie, days bled and weekends were denoted as something different only in the increase in business his clubs did. More people, more bodies, more alcohol and music and nights so long they were more like mornings.

But after Ellie… weekdays became the long crawl to the freedom of the weekend. Five days spent in anticipation of two. And, there’s something wrong with that, he knows. To spend eighty percent of his time waiting for the last twenty.

But he does.

So when he gets the option of a day spent in bed with her, just the two of them, or forcing them both into a family dinner neither one really wants…

He’ll take the bed and the girl.

An easy enough choice, no matter the disappointment in his mother’s voice.

 

But Monday comes, no matter if it’s spent between sheets or between his family at a dinner table.

 

And the girl leaves.

 

 

               

 

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

 

 

 

                Mondays _suck—_

 

Mondays are the _worst,_ Ellie thinks, sitting in first period, staring out the window and wishing it was Friday.

The grey day hangs heavy, an _unseasonably cold November_ her homeroom teacher had said at the start of the day. _Dress warmly, girls. Boys, you are not ‘cool’ for not wearing coats._

Not that it mattered much, Ellie thought, _dress warmly_ for girls meant ugly-as-sin trousers or dark tights that did about as much good at fending off a chill as a t-shirt in midwinter.

So, tights it is.

She thinks about the weight of the phone in her lap, screen dark, sneaking glances down at it as the day drags on. An ache in her body that leaves her wet and wanting. An ache inside of her that makes her restless and impatient. An ache that leaves her waiting for a vibration, a ping, a little notification that she’s not the only one blinking skin and sex and sounds on every blink of her eyelids.

But it stays dark.

 

Like she said. Mondays _suck_.

 

 

           “Miss Evans, can you stay a moment?”

Ellie sighs, shifting her bag higher on her shoulder, Mya and their friends shuffling out ahead of her with a _meet you in the dining hall,_ as she waits for the class to empty out before heading over to Paul’s desk.

She isn’t sure why he still bothers with the whole Miss Evans thing, it’s no secret that Ellie is practically his stepdaughter. His students and her peers have long gotten used to their relationship; the teasing stopped first year when Ellie was less ‘one of them’ and more… charity case.

Though that one still stings a little when she thinks about it.

It’s not every day that a student in a Trinity uniform says, _no, I grew up in New Rochelle, with my single mother and grandmother. We didn’t do brunch, or have a town car, or go to some fancy private school since kindergarten._

But, she’s old news now, thankfully.

“I saw your name on the list of students signed out on the weekend. Want to tell me what that was about?”

Ellie frowns, feeling her irritation rise. “I’m still working. You said I had until after the wedding—”

“If you need money for something—”

“Professor He—”

“Really, Ellie?” Paul sighs. “I know this is hard for you, after it being just you and your mother for so long. But it’s been three years, your mother thinks—”

Ellie thinks, she really doesn’t care at all what her mother thinks, her mother is so stuffed up full of lace and satin, flowers and cake, venues and music, that Ellie’s nothing more than another invitation to address.

Which is mean and unfair and she _knows it,_ but faced with the man in front of her, knowing that her mother _knew—_

She fucking _knew_ who her father was for the last seventeen years, knowing how fucking _close_ he was—

And he _wants_ her. He _does_. He didn’t leave and not look back. He just had no idea Ellie even _existed._

“Ellie?”

Ellie blinks, mind careening back into the moment, the classroom quiet and empty, but her thoughts scrambled, trying to piece together what he was saying.

“Sorry, what?”

 “We’ve got an appointment at that bridal shop on Wednesday,” Paul says as he leans back in his desk chair, rolling a pen through his fingers. Ellie remembers him showing her how he does that, years ago now, with coins and pens. She always thought it was kind of neat, now it just kind of irritates her, like he’s impatient with something.

“Wednesday? I can go alone,” she starts, thinking he doesn’t want take her. “Or take Mya—”

“No, it’s fine,” he frowns. “It’s in my name anyway, your mother pulled some colours and dresses this weekend, but you were…working.”

Except she wasn’t, Ellie glances up at him, looking to see if he’s suspicious.

Paul doesn’t say anything, his pen rotating through his fingers watching Ellie as she stands at the edge of his desk, her hands tight on the strap of her backpack.

“I was out with Mya,” she says, trying not to wince at how forced it sounds, how much like she’s explaining away something he didn’t even really ask.

His pen rolls along his fingers, into his palm as he turns back to his desk, clicking the top of it. “Dress appointment is at five, but I’ve got us a table at Avanti’s for dinner, after.”

Ellie nods, breath easing out of her. “Yeah, sure. Sounds good.”

“And your mother wants you home this weekend, we’ll be leaving after school on Friday, so cover your shifts if you have them.”

“But—” Ellie starts, her knuckles white on her strap. “But I have—”

 _No excuse,_ she thinks. _None_. Nothing that isn’t just _I don’t want to._

Paul lifts a brow, waiting, his pen loose in his fingers.

“It’s a long weekend, your mother would like to see you. Now go have lunch before you run out of time.”

Ellie swallows the argument in her throat, and nods, turning to go.

“Ellie,” Paul calls, as she’s near the door, waiting until she turns back to look at him; his face quiet, hesitating. “It’s not Ethan again, is it?”

Ellie shakes her head, frowning, caught by the question. “I’m not…I’m not seeing anyone.”

It’s another long moment of a too quiet look before Paul nods. “Alright, do me a favour and give your mother a call tonight, she misses you.”

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

              

 

 

> E: It’s stupid. I don’t want to go.

 

His thumb lingers over the keypad, the screen a bright point in the dark of the car, his hand lit up in each passing street light.

> N: _I know—_

He starts, deletes, lingers over the idea of typing: _then don’t go._

Stay here, stay with me, don’t go.

But he told himself, so many fucking times, every time he picked up his phone only to put it back down again that he wasn’t going to monopolize her time, wasn’t going to invade her life like some sort of overly-controlling boyf—

Pare—

Whatever the fuck he is.

He may be living his weeks in that fucking 80/20 reality of life A.E. but he isn’t, he _isn’t_ , going to be that guy.

(And how stupid was he? Thinking that fucking her, that getting to fuck her would ease some of that need, some of that impatience and irritation at the long drag of hours between the moments he gets to see her and the ones he doesn’t.)

He’s supposed to be _smart,_ isn’t he?

(If anything, he thinks it made it _worse._ )

“Two minutes,” Sergei says, turning down another street on the long trek from the city to Manhattan Beach.

> N: I know you don’t. We’ll figure it out, don’t worry.

 

> E: And now I work on Tuesday and Thursday because I had to switch shifts to go home. And Paul’s taking me to get my bridesmaid dress Wednesday so I can’t even

 

The text cuts off, Nico stares at the text, the three dots showing her typing appear and disappear as he waits, trying to bite back the urge to throw his phone, to snap it, crack it open— or hunt down Paul Hethridge and tell him he’s got the mother he can knock up, but her daughter is already called for.

That trawling for seconds isn’t a good fucking look on anyone.

Which is cruel and far too fucking ironic, he thinks, as he’s pretty much trawling for seconds, seeing as _technically_ Hethridge knew her first.

Which doesn’t fail to piss him off every fucking time he’s reminded of the fact that Ellie could have a father, _should_ have a father in someone like Paul Hethridge.

Not someone like Nicolas Cordova.

That, if she hadn’t come looking—

> E: it’s bullshit.

It is. But what’s he supposed to tell her? That he understands? That he can’t help her?

That he _can_?

Because he can, he knows, it wouldn’t be hard at all—

But she’d be effectively destroying the life she has.

How can he tell her that he’d gladly destroy it for her, that it wouldn’t take much to do it, that he could do it in an hour, in less, if he really wanted to.

And he wouldn’t even need to break the law to do it.

They cruise down a long, straight road looking out onto Sheepshead Bay, within walking distance to the community college further along the bay, right at the tip of Manhattan Beach.

All of it still well within Brooklyn.

Which pisses him off.

“You’d think they’d fucking know better by now,” he says, voice rough with a rising irritation as he takes in the area, stuffing his phone into his pocket and looking out over the quiet street as Sergei slows a few houses down from where they’re going.

“Money makes men stupid,” Sergei shrugs, the headlights switching off, the SUV rolling to a quiet stop. “But it has been a while since you’ve made an appearance.”

Nico snorts, tilting his head back along the seat rest, watching another car continue down the street, waiting for the headlights to fade.

“Alright,” he says, ignoring the vibration of his phone in favour of climbing out of the car, running a hand through his hair as he rebuttons his suit jacket, rolling his head along his shoulders before shrugging, easing the stiffness of the forty-minute drive and sending a quick, sharp grin at Sergei. “Let’s do this the old way.”

Sergei grins back. “Always a good time.”

 

 

                Up the steps of a quiet, rundown house next to two rather well-maintained homes, Nico can’t help but shake his head at the sight, pizza boxes, beer bottles, broken glass…

“Fuckin’ what is it about bad dealers,” he mutters, Sergei behind him as the front door creaks open, the house inside dark but for one spilling yellow light somewhere further in.

One of his men holds the door open for him as he steps into a narrow house that smells like weed and sweat and old food.

“What were the names again?”

“Trenton Leeson and Gary Fisher, twenty-six and thirty-eight,” Gabe says, the tendons in his neck shifting as he nods towards the back of the house. “In the basement.”

 _Right_ , he thinks. _Trenton_ , the college dropout turned ‘dealer’ after mommy and daddy cut him off for flunking classes to many years in a row.

He follows Gabe down into the basement, which is nothing more than a continuation of the state of the upstairs. Food containers, beer bottles, cans, drugs…

A cold, damp feeling in the air, the faintest touch of ocean air like one of his men had a window cracked at some point. He doesn’t blame them.

There are two bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling, casting the same yellowish light as upstairs but brighter, stripping and exposing the room and the men in it.

“Gentlemen,” he greets, smiling as steps off the final stair of the creaky wood staircase and catches sight of the two men sitting on a lumpy, fabric torn sofa set against one wall of the basement. There’s another of Nico’s men leaning against the wall beside them, his gun resting in his hands, relaxed, but a clear statement that it would be in the two men’s best interest to stay seated and wait.  “So glad we could finally meet. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Who the fuck are you,” the older one says, _Gary_ , of no fixed address, but a rap sheet as long as his arm. Petty, minor shit, too. Too stupid to even manage to get away with that.

It irritates him even more, a steadily rising swell of it inside of him, starting that morning, waking up alone with nothing but a lingering smell beside him and a lingering memory behind his eyelids when he’d climbed into the shower and gotten himself off to the fantasy of her there, with him.

But he bites it back, smile all sharp-edged and sharp-toothed as he plucks a metal folding chair from a crooked table set in the far corner and sits on it, right in front of the two insignificant, but irritating men.

Well, one man, one boy.

He unbuttons his jacket, eases back in the chair, stretches out his legs, crossing one foot over the other, tucking his hands in his pockets. A picture of easy apathy in shiny leather shoes and glinting cufflinks.

His phone vibrates again. It takes a surprising amount of effort not to pull it out. Which makes that rising swell of irritation and frustration crest inside of him, because it’s a reminder that he can’t see her this weekend. That he has to drag his ass through that eighty percent with no twenty percent to look forward to.

That he’s going to have to steal crumbs of her time like some desperate fucking animal growling for scraps.

Which pisses him off.

 “You been making good money in this area?” he asks, his smile steady, unaffected by his thoughts; watching the frown on both of the men’s faces, but sees the hesitation, the fear in Trenton’s. His eyes darting from Nico to the men behind him.

“I said, _who the fuck are you_?” Gary snarls, his face tinting red. “These men come into my place and act like we waiting for the fuckin’ president or some shit—”

“Mister Fisher,” Nico smiles, “I can guarantee I am not the president… But I am the man whose territory you’ve been dealing in.”

Trenton shifts in his seat, fear etched across his face and it’s obvious both men are aware that they were dealing in an area that wasn’t theirs to take.

“So?” Gary huffs, but there’s a shadow of doubt in his eyes. “You got plenty of other places, don’t you. A man’s gotta eat.”

Nico nods, his smile unchanged. “I completely agree, Mister Fisher. So, tell me, how much money have you been making?”

“Not much,” Trenton blurts. “Really. Honest. We haven’t even—barely—I mean—”

“Shut up, idiot.” Gary snarls, turning to look at his partner. “We don’t owe him nothing. Thinks he’s big rolling in here in his suit and his bodyguards and acting like he can own a fucking city—”

“I can, actually,” Nico smiles. “Though I tend to view Staten Island more as a… mutually beneficial partnership. Regardless, I definitely own Manhattan Beach. I might’ve let you scrape by if you’d been closer to the border, maybe even let the Queen’s crew deal with you. But,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal at all. “But you chose Manhattan Beach.”

“People can buy whatever they want, we ain’t pushed you out, just sold it cheaper, offered some alternatives,” Gary sneers a smile like he’s trying to aim for some sort of business talk. “If your product can’t keep up, that ain’t on us.”

“Is that right?” Nico asks, lifting a brow. “You Jeff Bezos, Mister Fisher?”

 _Huh_ , the man blurts, his face twisting.

“Amazon,” Nico clarifies. “I’m asking if you’re trying to underprice me then monopolize the area once _my men_ , with my more expensive, yet _infinitely better_ product, has been pushed out.”

Gary blinks, his mouth opening and then shutting.

 _Fucking idiot,_ Nico thinks.

“See, you think Manhattan beach is just college kids and an easy couple grand, but I know, Mister Fisher, exactly the percent Manhattan Beach is accountable for in my business.”

“Business,” he scoffs. “It’s fucking drugs, you rich ass—”

Gabe snorts. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“What, can’t fight back for yourself, asshole?” Gary taunts, pushing up to his feet, his face red. There’s a shift of fabric behind him, hands on guns, he knows. “Think you can come here with your paid men and tell me how to live my life. I ain’t afraid a’ you!”

Nico keeps his eyes on Gary, his face blank, but flicks them to Trenton. The boy is white, staring at his lap, saying nothing.

“Mister Leeson, where do you operate from?”

“An old—”

 “Don’t tell him shit—” Gary snarls. “He can’t do nothing to stop us.”

“Gabe,” Nico says, his eyes locked on Gary. “Could you take Mister Leeson upstairs and get him to tell you where they’ve been making their product?”

“Don’t fuckin’ move, Trent,” Gary yells, his face twisted. “That’s our shit.”

Gabe rounds Nico’s side, motioning for Trenton to stand. Gary swings out and Gabe’s hand goes to his gun, bracing, tilting away from the swing, his jaw tight and angry for a second before he looks to Nico for instruction. Or permission, depending on Nico’s mood.

 _That’s my shit!_ Gary yells again. “Get the fuck outta my house! You can’t do shit to stop us. Coming in here like you own us! You’re nothing but a spoiled fuckin’ rich bastard—”

Gabe laughs, his hand falling back to his side, taking a step back, falling a step behind and to the side of Nico’s chair.

Gary’s eyes dart to the other man at the sound of his laughter, red-faced and mouth tight with anger; Trenton bled of colour, eyes wide, halfway out of his seat and frozen still as Nico pushes out a breath and stands.

“You know, I’m usually much more patient then this,” Nico says, shrugging off his jacket. “But you’ve caught me in a bad mood, which, unfortunately for you…means my patience has run out rather quickly.”

He passes his jacket to Gabe, who steps back again, folding the jacket over his arm.

 “Fuck your patience,” Gary snarls, but he’s looking up at Nico now, eyes darting down like he’s just now taking stock of the other man. “And _fuck you._ ”

“Fuck me,” Nico mutters, nodding as he rolls up his sleeves and takes in the room around them, eyes falling on a baseball bat, leaning against the wall.

He walks towards it, Gary sputters behind him, angry and confused and trying to save face. _I’m not done talking to you, asshole._

Picking up the bat, he looks back at the two men on the couch. “This yours?” he asks Trenton, who nods shakily. “You used to be a little leaguer, right?”

Another nod, surprised by Nico’s knowledge. “Y-yeah.”

“Dad take you out to play catch too?”

Trenton nods, quickly, jerkily.

Nico grips the bat lifting it and testing its weight. “That’s nice. I never did, you know, so my aim might be a little off, Gary. But I’ll tell you what, you tell me where you’ve been making your cheap shit and I’ll try my best not to break your fucking legs.”

“I’ll tell—” Trenton starts but gets cut off by Gary’s: _We ain’t tellin’ you shit!_

Nico almost laughs at him, if it weren’t rather pathetic, watching the older man take a step back, nearly tripping, fear edging around his eyes.

“I’ll tell you!” Trenton yells, but Nico lifts the bat, flipping it end over end, watching the two men flinch at the hollow sound it makes as it reconnects in his palm, smiling at them.

Nico steps forward as Gary stumbles back another step, eyeing Nico’s men around the room like a cornered animal ready to bolt for freedom.

“Thanks, Trent,” Nico grins, lifting the bat and pointing it at Gary’s chest. “But I think Gary and I got some things to work out.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably be asking a few questions occasionally, as I hope to one day publish something and I find myself dissatisfied with a lot of published romance/erotica. So I have questions of what people like that aren't on goodreads and apparently can be very, very wrong about what qualifies as 'good' erotica/romance. (In my opinion, no hate, but some of it is like..woo, bad.)  
> So if anyone is interested in dropping their opinions, you can also answer on tumblr which makes it easier to be anonymous (which I turned on) and not deal with emails and whatnot, so if you feel inclined... I'd be interested in some different opinions.
> 
> 1- cum/come  
> 2- any kinks that are hard no's or just 'eh, not so much' for you in a romance. (Mine is strict D/S in BDSM, not a fan tbh.)
> 
> But anyway, hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I'd love to know what you think of Nico's POV!


	17. Part Two, II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing really to say this week except this chapter is super long, sorry about that. Hope you like it!
> 
>  
> 
> Ellie's dresses in this chapter: https://sweetandsure.tumblr.com/post/181773130739

 

* * *

Part Two, II

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

            Ellie slips out of her bed and into Mya’s, tugging the covers over them and settling into the warmth.

 “So?” Mya whispers, her breath minty and cool, her eyes eager. “I’m dying. Tell me _everything_.”

Ellie bites her lip, feels like she can’t give it words, not really. Like what they did was something so normal yet so—

So fucking _not normal,_ that any justification or explanation will leave it wanting.

Like it’s best described as the little ache still inside of her, a weird feeling of being full and then _not._ Like being in the sun and baking beneath a yellow heat and then stepping into the shade, skin still warm but blinking just to _see_.

“Perfect,” she whispers in a soft exhale. “It was…perfect.”

“Was he, you know, packing like you thought?”

Ellie grins, laughs and nods. “Bigger.”

“Ugh,” Mya groans, her face twisting. “I hate you.”

Ellie bites her cheek, ignoring the surging little swell of want inside of her at the memory of his cock, the shine of it slipping in and out of her, every too-thick, too-long inch. They way they both watched it, eager to see it, eager to feel it, just fucking _eager._

She wonders if she should tell Mya about not using a condom. She isn’t even sure how she feels about it yet, the fact that they didn’t, that she didn’t— _doesn’t_ care at all.

And she knows she should, because Nico is right, they _should_ be careful. More so than most, really.

But the memory of him inside of her, hot and bare, nothing at all between them makes her insides coil tight, and the heat, pulse, throb of him filling her up…she _likes_ it, far more than she thinks she should.

Even the slow leak of his cum after. (More than just the lingering feeling, she knows, but the way he looked as he watched it, as he touched her and groaned and enjoyed it just as much as she did.)

“Did it hurt at all?” Mya asks, rolling more onto her side to face Ellie, the jostle of the bed dragging her back into the moment. “With him being bigger?”

“Not really, I mean… I don’t really have anything to compare it to, you know, so I can’t know for sure?” she scrunches her face a little. “I mean, your first time didn’t hurt, right?”

“No, it was just weird and quick. But Mike wasn’t like… huge _._ ”

“He did this thing though, uhm, the first time—” _two times,_ her mind says _, two times because he fucked you twice, didn’t even really get soft, pushed you back against the mattress and took you apart all over again._

“He made me put my hand between us, like right, uh, between us, so he couldn’t push in all the way. I had to look it up, because, I mean, I understood why he did it, I guess, but you know…”

“Curious minds,” Mya says, and Ellie nods. _Yeah._

“So he wouldn’t go to deep, right?” she asks, a little line between her brows, curious for more information.

Ellie nods, shifting, trying not to linger on the memories and the ache still inside of her and reaches for her phone, opening up the web page she’d been reading. “Yeah, so there’s a few articles and stuff, about girls who have well-endowed boyfriends, they do it too, or their boyfriends do, I guess.”

“You said the first time?” Mya smiles, brows shifting up and down quickly, a leer on her face.

Ellie laughs. “Yeah, uh, the next morning, I sort of…climbed on top?”

Mya grins, her toes poking into Ellie’s legs. “Did you blow Daddy’s mind?”

“No!” Ellie laughs, feeling her cheeks pink, because she didn’t, he was…

She can’t have, not really. Nico’s always so… _controlled_. She doesn’t know what it would take to get him to lose it, as much as she wishes she could say she blew his mind, Ellie’s pretty sure he’s done all of this before.

She’s the only virgin here.

Or was, anyway.

“No, I don’t think I did. I mean, it’s not like he hasn’t done this before, so…” she shrugs. “But I did try to take him all the way, and that…yeah, it hurt sort of? But in a weird way, like it was this really, really weird pressure, which, the site says would be my cervix so…”

“So did he let you keep going?”

Ellie blinks, because no, he didn’t. Nico _did_ stop her, didn’t he? Pulling her forward to lay on his chest had shifted the angle, his hips pushing up into her, his cock a slow rocking intrusion that blew her mind apart despite his every shift up and inside of her was kept shallow and slow and nowhere near as deep as she knows he can go.

“Uhm, no, not really, he took over and, you know…” Ellie trails off.

Mya groans. “I am so jealous. I don’t care if his brother is a man-whore. I want one. Are dicks genetic?”

Ellie laughs, “I have no idea….” Pulling up her phone again, she grins into the blue glow of the screen. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

 _Is dick size genetic?_ She types as Mya’s head tilts closer to hers, their hair tangling, heads touching as she laughs.

“Are big dicks hereditary, maybe? Wait, maybe penis is a better word to use…”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            “Are you expecting someone?” Andie asks, leaning on the counter near the till. “You’ve been watching the door all night.”

“What? No.” Ellie denies, shaking her head and purposefully turning away from the door and picking up a rag to wipe down... something. “Just…thinking about school work.”

 _Uh-huh,_ Andie drawls as Ellie hesitates, rag in hand. “You’ve also wiped everything down twice already.”

Ellie scrunches her face, turning back to face Andie and giving her a _yeah, my bad._ “Sorry, I’m just spacey today.”

“It’s fine, it’s kinda entertaining, anyway,” she says, smiling. “And, it’s dead, so... I’ll take what I can get.”

 _True,_ Ellie laughs and _doesn’t_ glance at the door again because she’s _not_ thinking about Max or Maksim or whatever his name is.

Ellie had spent a good part of her walk to work thinking about the man and the photos and Nico’s voice telling her _dangerous_ and _stay away from him._

And worse, maybe, is Illyana just… dropping _Russian mafia_ on Ellie like it was _nothing._ Like saying that their family, _her family,_ is mob— mafia— _whatever_ associated?

Like it’s no big?

Ellie doesn’t even know what to _do_ with any of it. It hurts her head every time she tries to think about it. Because none of it makes sense.

Nico owns clubs, and he works… he’s said he’s a businessman first and his clubs are just _side ventures._ _Easy money, sweetheart._

But he owns a gun. Guns?

Just because his mother’s estranged family is mob—mafia— _whatever_ , doesn’t mean Nico is somehow involved. Right?

 _Right_ , she thinks.

But—

_We own this city, you run it._

What does that even _mean?_

“ _Ellie_.”

She jolts, the rag still in her hand, turning to look at Andie who rolls her eyes, but laughs.

“Sorry,” Ellie winces. “Maybe I should go make something for the opening shift? I can make your scones ahead of time?”

 Andie considers it, then nods. “Yeah, actually. I’d appreciate that. Go for it.”

 _Perfect,_ Ellie thinks, and _doesn’t_ glance back at the front door. _Scones are easy. Scones make sense. Scones don’t own guns and have dubious maybe-sex clubs or have Russian relatives that might be out to—_

_Something._

Maybe Max has a twin. Evil sibling. The bad seed.

Maybe Nico just got it wrong and her Max, the one that talks to her because he said he was a little lonely in a new city isn’t the same guy that…

She doesn’t even know.

_That man is dangerous. You need to stay away from him._

 

_How much damage could one Russian do?_

_I’m not bringing her into this life._

“I’m already in his life?” she says into the chill of the fridge as she opens it. “What the fuck.”

She debates calling him, but she isn’t even sure what she wants to say. Isn’t even sure she wants to know what any of it really means.

_He’s not just a businessman, is he?_

_He is_ _good man._

_Stupid_ , Ellie mutters to the white puff of flour she dumps into a bowl. _Thinks about scones,_ she tells herself. _Scones are easy. Scones make sense._

“Ugh,” she huffs, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her cellphone, thumbing the screen open and hitting the call button before she can think twice.

She sets it down on the old wood island counter, letting it ring and fill the too-quiet of the Roastery’s kitchen.

_“Hello, sweetheart.”_

“Hi,” Ellie starts, falters, grasps at straws. “I’m making scones.”

 _I’m making scones,_ _really?_ Ellie drops her head back, trying not to groan out loud at herself. “At work, you know, so…”

Nico laughs, a low sound in the speaker, filling up the quiet and her belly all slow and easy like warm water.

“Quiet night?”

“Yeah. I didn’t see Max— Maks. Uh, Zhurov.”

There’s a pause, just a little moment before he answers. “That’s good.”

She frowns, looking at her phone while she measures salt. _That’s good?_

“You already knew that, didn’t you?”

“Might have,” Nico says and there’s no sounds around him, she wonders if he’s at home or not.

“Uh-huh,” Ellie says slowly, weighing his words. “What else do you know?”

Nico chuckles just a little, and there’s a creak of a sound, like he’s leaning back in a chair. At home then, his office, maybe.

“Do you want the honest answer or the easy answer?”

“Honest. Obviously,” she frowns as she cuts the cold butter into chunks.

“Your hair is in pigtails, I think it’s adorable.”

Elie stops, the knife making a hollow sound as it thumps through the last cold chunk. “How—”

“There’s a car across the street,” Nico says quietly, slowly, like she needs time to take it in. “Black Range Rover, it’s been there since you got there and it’ll be there until you leave.”

“You’re—”

“Not me, no,” he clarifies, carefully, like he knows he’s freaking her out _just a bit._ “But they work for me.”

“And they’re what, watching me?”

 _Yes._ Nico says without any pause or hesitation at all.

“ _Why_?”

It goes quiet, Ellie glances at her phone again, glances towards the door of the kitchen like she can see out to the street from here.

“Why do you think, Ellie?”

_Because there are things you aren’t telling me and I’m not sure I even want to know._

_Because you called him dangerous and told me to stay away from him._

_Because you’re what, protecting me?_

“Is it Sergei?” she says instead, because what do you say to your boyf— da— _something_ telling you that he has someone watching you for your safety?

Nico makes a noise into the speaker, not quite a laugh. “Yes.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as I need him to. Now tell me about your day.”

 

 

 

 

 

            Wednesday comes and it’s no better than Monday, but Ellie wakes early and runs a few laps to burn off the impatience inside of her that’s settling into a bad mood at the idea of how slowly the week is crawling by, how much time is left until she can actually spend some time with him…

It’s cold out, frost on the grass and dirt crunching beneath her shoes, her breath a white puff in every exhale, but it helps burn out her irritation, at least for a little while.

Near the end, she checks her phone and finds a text waiting.

_Good morning_

And she knows he isn’t one for good morning or good night texts, and Ellie likes that, she does, because she finds them kind of silly a lot of the time. But she smiles at this one and lifts her phone, snaps a photo of herself in the early morning glare of the sun: grinning, pink-cheeked and red-nosed from the cold and types back, _morning—_

And laughs when he pings back with, _thanks for the new background._

 

            Her mood stays high the rest of the day, she isn’t sure if he’s texting more because he knows she’s upset about the weekend, or if he’s just having an oddly chatty day.

She’ll take it though, regardless of the reason.

It keeps her occupied through the school day right up to the point where Paul’s name appears beside Nico’s on her message screen reminding her about dinner and their appointment for her bridesmaid dress.

P: Pick you up in thirty at the front doors. Your mom will be meeting us at the appointment.

Ellie frowns at that new development, but doesn’t care enough to ask why, just types back an _okay_ and clicks back into her messages with Nico. She debates telling him she might be busy later but figures it can’t be that hard to text at a dress appointment, can it?

 

 

 

 

 

> N: Favourite colour?
> 
> E: Depends on what it is, I like pink clothes, but lilac is a really pretty colour. You?
> 
> N: Black, if that counts.
> 
> E: That’s so boring. And a predictable guy choice.
> 
> N: Grey then?
> 
> E: Worse. So much worse.
> 
> N: It’s very versatile.

She laughs, typing back, _still predictable_ , glancing up  from her phone when she hears her name.

“Ellie,” Paul says over his shoulder, already at the counter to check into their appointment. “Lore’ is running late, we’re going to go up and get started, she asked if you brought heels?”

Ellie shakes her head, looking at her high-tops and jean-covered legs. “I’ll stand on tip-toe, no worries.”

He huffs a laugh, the girl behind the counter smiles at them as she signs them in, making small talk until their assistant for the fitting comes in and leads them both into the shop.

“Would either of you like a drink?” she asks, another attendant waiting beside her for an order. Ellie shakes her head, but Paul orders two drinks, one for him and one for Loren, who’s _a few minutes out, sorry Peanut, traffic is bad._

Ellie doesn’t really mind one way or the other, if she can give her mother anything it’s that she has good taste and Ellie really wouldn’t be all that concerned if she just picked something out for Ellie to wear without telling her.

Paul’s texting quietly, sitting on the soft couch near her dressing room while the assistant, Mary, leads her to a rack of dresses. They’re all varying shades of fabrics, lengths and puffiness, but all of them are in the same range of cool colours, sliding in a gradient from light grey through to blue-grey and into darker grey-blues.

“I don’t have to try on all of them, do I?” Ellie asks, looking at just how many there are on the moveable rack.

Mary looks at her, her smile kind and polite but bordering into, _teenagers, honestly._

“Not if you find one you like quickly,” she offers and then reaches for the first one.

> N: How’s the appointment going?
> 
> E: it’s fine, kinda boring.
> 
> N: what time do you think you’ll be done, maybe we can see each other for a bit?

_Shit,_ Ellie thinks, because her answer is automatically a whole-hearted _yes_ , but— she hesitates, debating the truth, her teeth in her lip while Mary peels the first dress off of the rack and leads Ellie into the changeroom.

> E: Paul’s taking me to dinner after

The bag covering the dress rustles as Mary pulls it out, asking Ellie to step out of her clothes. Ellie glances at her phone, watching the three dots of Nico typing appear and disappear twice.

Impatiently, Ellie yanks off her shirt, dropping her phone on the fabric on the little bench in the room and catches Mary side-eying her sports bra.

“I’ll get you a bandeau,” she offers, flicking down Ellie’s body to her shoes. “And a pair of heels.”

Ellie sighs, blowing her hair out of her face and eyeing her phone, quiet and dark on the bench, trying to resist the urge to pick it up and text him again.

And then it vibrates, just as Mary comes back and Ellie snatches it up.

> N: Okay, we’ll figure out a night, don’t worry about it.

“Miss—” Mary starts, holding out the bandeau, a brow raised.

“Right, sorry,” Ellie says, dropping her phone again as the woman turns to give Ellie a modicum of privacy while she pulls on the bandeau and slips her sports bra off.

 

 

            Ellie’s mother arrives as Ellie’s stepping out of the changeroom in her third dress. Loren sweeps her up in a hug, pressing a cold-lipped kiss to Ellie’s cheek.

“It’s so cold out there,” she says, shivering a little. “I swear, my mind purposefully tries to forget how bad the traffic gets in the city, sorry I’m late, El.”

“It’s fine, really. Paul vetoed the first two, anyway. They were kinda…eh,” she says, pulling a face.

“I snapped a few pictures just in case you wanted to see,” Paul offers from the couch.

Ellie steps up onto the slight podium in front of the semi-circle of mirrors and tilts her head at the new dress. “Looks kinda purple-y, doesn’t it?”

“A little,” Loren says, squinting. “It’s too low cut, anyway. Next one?”

Back into the changeroom, Mary un-clips the plastic clips holding the back of the dress more fitted to Ellie’s size and helps her out of the long length of the skirt.

“I’m vetoing that one,” Ellie says, eyeing the next one on the hangar. “It’s too puffy.”

Mary nods, shuffling the dress onto the discard rack on the other wall of the changeroom and pulls the next dress. It’s pretty, a shimmery, light grey more like silver colour, the fitted, sparkling top is a sweetheart neckline that Mary pulls tight and clips Ellie into again.

“Too bad I don’t have boobs,” she huffs, feeling the tug-clip of Mary’s pinning and fitting the fabric into Ellie’s body shape.

“We can add a bit padding, if you’d like,” she offers, looking at Ellie in the mirror. “Let’s see what your mom thinks first.”

“Oh, Ellie,” her mother smiles when she steps out and onto the podium. “That’s so pretty.”

It is a gorgeous dress, long and fitted around her hips in a surprisingly light feeling fabric. The skirt a darker grey-silver than the top. A satin tie around the waist, tied around the back.

“You think we could add a bit more fabric up top, though?” Loren asks, standing behind Ellie and tilting her head. “It’s a little too mature.”

Ellie rolls her eyes and keeps silent, half hoping they pick this dress because it’s pretty enough and if they finish quick enough then maybe, _maybe_ she can sneak out to see Nico.

“We can add something like this,” Mary says, folding some similar fabric over Ellie’s shoulder and pinning it in place. “In a wide strap, nearly off the shoulder?”

Loren nods, head still tilted. “And maybe loosen the skirt a bit?”

“Mum,” Ellie says, rolling her eyes. “Seriously?”

“You’re seventeen, Peanut, that dress is gorgeous but it’s meant for someone a little bit older, I think.”

“We can definitely adjust it,” Mary nods and turns back into the changeroom to grab another dress. She holds it up to Ellie’s waist, the top of it folded down so only the bottom is visible. “Like this?”

“Perfect.” Loren smiles, looking at Ellie in the mirror. “You like it?”

Ellie nods, because it’s pretty enough and she really doesn’t care enough to argue. “It’s pretty.”

“Perfect!” she grins, snapping a photo of Ellie and her dress while Ellie tries not to rush the night along.

“Great, so we’re done?” Ellie asks, hopeful for a moment only, catching hesitation on her mother’s face.

“Almost,” Paul says from the couch. “There’s a gala this weekend that my father would like us to attend. You should see if you can find a dress for it here.”

“I saw one on the way in,” Loren says, helping Ellie down from the podium. “Red, lacey, seasonal.”

“I’m sure you’ll look great in it,” Ellie says as she steps in. “Where’s the event?”

“I meant for you.” Loren says and turns to Mary, speaking to her about where she saw it and something about shoes. Ellie frowns as the assistant heads off.

“What?” Ellie asks, eye’s darting from Paul to her mother. “Why do I need a dress?”

“Because we’re all going,” Paul explains, looking up from his phone. “My father is helping organize it and since it’s apparently education oriented, he’d like all of us to attend.”

“But—” Ellie starts, floundering. “Why?”

“Because we’re a family,” Paul says, looking back at his phone. “It’s Saturday night at the Plaza, shouldn’t be more than a few hours, I don’t think.”

_At the Plaza—_

“So, we’re not going to Lloyd Harbour then? On Friday?”

“Nope!” Loren smiles, helping Ellie unpin the back of her dress while Ellie holds it up at the front. “We’re staying at the apartment.”

For a moment, a blinding second, Ellie is _thrilled_. Staying in the city means she can maybe, hopefully, _optimistically_ sneak away and spend even a few hours with Nico.

“The whole weekend?” Ellie itches to grab her phone, to call him, to tell him that life doesn’t suck quite as bad as she thought it did at the start of the week.

“Yup, figured we could spend some time together, just the three of us. It’s been awhile since we’ve done that.”

“Family time,” Paul says, smiling at Loren, something warm and fond in his eyes.

“Family time,” she smiles back, her hands pausing on the pins holding the fake sleeves in place.

Ellie frowns, looking between them, eyeing her mother and then Paul and feeling like she’s missing something.

“What’s up with you two?”

“Nothing,” her mother says, shutting the door of the changeroom so she can finish helping Ellie out of the dress. “We just haven’t actually spent any time together since the summer. Since that trip to the beach, remember?”

Ellie nods, watching her mother in the mirror while she pulls on the robe and waits for this red dress she’s supposed to try on. “How long do you think the gala-thing will be?”

“Why, got a hot date you’re not telling me about?” she teases, eyes crinkling.

“What? No?” Ellie denies, trying desperately not to look at her phone. “Just curious. Homework and stuff, you know. I thought we were spending the weekend in Lloyd Harbour.”

Her mother watches her for a second, Ellie fiddles with the satin-y fabric of the robe. _Don’t think about his dick, don’t think about it, don’t think about how it stretched and filled and burned—_

_Ugh._

“Are you seeing anybody, Peanut? Paul mentioned you’ve been…distracted.”

“No, no one,” Ellie says. “Honest.”

“Not Ethan?”

“Never Ethan,” she swears, meeting her mother’s eyes. “I promise. We’re long done. I’m not into anyone at school, really. They’re all the same.”

Loren nods, smoothing the dress on the hangar. “Boys from school are all the same until you get a little older anyway. They’re never worth the hassle, believe me.”

Ellie bites her tongue, glancing down at her phone, Nico’s voice in her head: _she hated me._

“You didn’t like anyone when you were in school?”

“Nope,” Loren denies, but her hands still smooth down the dress, fiddling with the fabric. “They were all the same, you know, never wanted anything more than the city.”

“More than the city?” she questions, her heart beating a little quicker, thinking about that photo, the boy, the grin—

Loren shrugs, turning back to face Ellie, her smile wide and a little forced. “Don’t worry about it. It was so long ago now. I didn’t keep in touch with any of them but Katie.”

Katie, the only one who would give Ellie a name, the only one who ever gave Ellie anything more than: _Peanut, he’s not part of our life, I don’t know where he is._

_Just you and me, Ellie, that’s what matters. We did okay, didn’t we?_

But Katie, her mother’s best friend since Ellie can remember, had sighed, hesitated and said: _I don’t know, El, you know your mom doesn’t like talking about it._

_Please, Katie, anything, just a name even._

_… Nick, I think his name is Nick._

A knock on the door interrupts them, Mary pushing in, red dress in hand, a pair of shoes hanging off her fingers.

Ellie forces a smile, ignores the ache inside of her, a different one this time, not for the memory of the weekend, not for sex… but just for his voice, his hands, the smell of him.

Anything, really. She just wants _him_.

 

 

            If her mother notices her mood through dinner, she doesn’t press. Ellie smiles when smiled at, speaks when spoken to, but she’s aching to get back to campus, checking her phone every few minutes and doesn’t know what to think of the fact Nico hasn’t texted her again.

 _He’s just giving you space,_ she thinks. _He knows you’re busy._

She tells herself not to text him until bedtime, that they don’t need to talk all day, that he already spent most of the day texting her.

 _Leave it,_ she thinks, _don’t be clingy._

 

And later, when she’s finally climbing into bed she gets a text, right as she sliding beneath her covers. Her phone lights up, vibrating, the name on the message making her smile, and the text—

 

> N: I lied, I think it’s pink.

 

The _photo_ attached leaves her aching in a different way.

Nico’s hand, a pink pair of her underwear hanging off of one finger. 

           

> N: _Sweet dreams, baby._

 

* * *

 

 

 

            “I still don’t understand why I have to go to this one, why is it different then the others?” Ellie complains, even as she’s stuffing her feet into her heels, not quite as tall as the things that Mya would pick, but close enough. “You usually let me skip them.”

“Because it’s for education,” her mother sighs, like somehow that matters more to Ellie now then it did the first time she heard it. “And the Hethridges would like us all to go.”

“But—”

“Ellie,” Loren cuts her off, looking at her in the mirror. “It’s a few hours of your Saturday night on a long weekend, and you didn’t even have to travel back home for it, why are you complaining?”

Ellie bites her tongue, because it’s true, the stupid event had saved her from travelling back to Lloyd Harbor for the weekend and had, instead, brought her mother down to her.

At least she’s not stuck up north, though, she’ll take it.

“Because they’re _boring._ And you’ve always said I don’t have to go them.”

“Yes, when you were younger, you’re old enough to be polite for a few hours, aren’t you?”

Ellie rolls her eyes, sending her mother a half-hearted glare but holding back her complaints, leaning down to do up the little buckles on the ankle strap of her heels.

 _I can be polite,_ she thinks. _But you still have never made me go_.

And it’s true, no matter what reasons her mother says now. Loren’s always been more than happy to let Ellie skip whatever fundraiser, gala, social event or party that the Hethridges attended in the name of ‘social connectivity’ or whatever they call it.

There’s only been a handful of events her mother has ever made her go to, and most of those were in Lloyd Harbor or at one of the Hethridge’s many properties.

So why not _now_ , when she could easily, _so_ _fucking easily_ , she thinks, sneak out for a few hours and see the one person she really, really wants to see.

“I just don’t understand—” she tries again, one more time.

“Peanut, can we not argue about it,” her mother sighs, leveling a ‘ _I’m-your-mother-and-you’ll-do-what-I-say’_ look at Ellie in the bright-lit mirror of the master bathroom as she applies the final touches of her makeup. “I’d like us to just be a family tonight, is that too much to ask?”

 _Yes,_ she thinks, _yes it fucking is._

_What about real family, huh? What about my real father? What about Nico?_

_Why Paul, why him, why now?_

It’s so close to her teeth she can taste the words; she wants to know, needs to know, _why keep that picture at all if you had no intention of ever telling me about him?_

_Why couldn’t you just tell me about him?_

She wonders if her mother ever looked at it, at that boy with the too-wide, cocky grin… what she would see if she did.

If she sees a sperm donor, just the way Ellie had tried to classify him, given up on the man her mother so convincingly pushed into obscurity and absence.

Does she see Ellie’s father? The should-have-been man in their life?

Or does she just see the seventeen-year-old boy she buried in her closet, trying to forget a name, a place, a history?

_She always hated me._

Wonders why she kept the picture, then. Why she wrote on it. Why she lied. Why she never told him. Why she never reached out. Why she never let Ellie—

But then, Ellie can’t help but remember what Nico said: _I’m fucking thankful she didn’t, because if I knew you, I’d never…I wouldn’t get to fuck you._

If Ellie had found that photo at fourteen, twelve, sixteen? What would they be know?

She isn’t so sure she wants to know.

And it isn’t until then, right then, standing in the bathroom and watching her mother fix the sweep of her hair over her shoulder, right the curve of her dress over her chest, the fall of fabric over her hips… that she really thinks, really accepts, really _knows_ just what she’s done.

She fucked her father. He _fucked_ her. They had _sex_ on an old mattress in the small apartment he grew up in, in the neighbourhood her mother did, in the same place that maybe, maybe Ellie was _conceived—_

 _Oh, holy fuck,_ she thinks, closing her eyes and shoving that thought away. _There’s no way Nico would do that,_ she knows. _There’s no way._

It surges in her stomach like acid, bitter and sour, but it’s nothing more than a second, nothing more than a moment—

And she sees him in her head, _hears_ him, his voice soft and rough and deadly deep, _you’re mine, aren’t you, Ellie?_

_I need you to be sure, Ellie, I need you to be fucking sure—_

It’s a sick thought, a sick acceptance, that she doesn’t want, can’t imagine, _won’t give him up._

_I want to keep you for as long as you’ll fucking let me._

 

She won’t give him up.

 

 

 

 

But still.

 

 

            It’s in her head the whole way to the Plaza, a loop of it, over and over and over—

 _Incest_.

A sharp, small word that sounds so fucking sick on instinct, so fucking harmful—

But they’re not— they’re _not_ _hurting_ _anyone_. They’re not fucked up, even though the idea of it is. Nico didn’t raise her, didn’t know her, didn’t touch her until she said _yes_ and _please_ and _more_ —

No matter what he said about not being able to not touch her, he never…

No matter what the connotations, what gut reaction that word instills inside of her, Ellie knows, she _does,_ that she had it right, that moment when he told her he wasn’t a nice man.

_It’s not nice, but it’s good._

_It’s so fucking good._

She pulls out her phone, restless, itching, aching to see him; staring at her screen, his name—

Because that’s as close as she can get right now and it’s not nearly enough.

She tilts the screen away from her mother, because Ellie’s stupid and should really change his name to something else in her phone… her fingers hesitating, her mind whirring and whirling and warped.

 _I miss you,_ she thinks. _I need you_ , she thinks. _Come get me_ , she thinks.

But her message screen stays empty, nothing from him since that morning, a good morning phone call in her bed, whispered beneath her blankets while her ‘parents’ slept down the hall.

 

 _(I’ll see you soon, I promise,_ he’d said, his voice all soft and rough and _perfect_ in her ear.

 _It’s thanksgiving next weekend,_ Ellie complained, whining, she knew, and didn’t care. _I hate this._

_I know, sweetheart. But I promise. It won’t be so long, you’ll see.)_

 

“We’re here,” Paul says, and Ellie blinks, her screen already dark, her mother sending her a searching look at Ellie’s quietness.

“Alright, El?” she asks, touching Ellie’s cheek, her forehead, her fingers soft and warm against her skin as the town car slows.

Ellie nods, pulling away as her mother touches her hair. “I’m fine, sorry, just thinking about schoolwork,” she lies.

She sees Paul smile at that, and Ellie can’t help but roll her eyes. “You finish the English assignment?”

“Almost,” she says, which isn’t a lie. She is basically done, had nothing else to do Friday night, stuck in Paul’s apartment with the two of them keeping her within arms distance most of the night. _Family movie night,_ he’d said, like she was _eight_ or something.

Eight and not seventeen and coming off of five days of perpetual horniness in the wake of finally fucking her fucking _father_.

It nearly made her laugh at the time, glancing at Paul’s face in the flickering-blue light of the tv, her mother tucked into his side, the movie rolling while Ellie had done homework and eaten popcorn and pretended like she hadn’t spent the end of her weekend in bed with her _daddy._

Now, she isn’t so sure what it does to her insides. It’s just fact.

She fucked her father.

 

 

 

            The front of the Plaza hotel is already busy, glowing and lit up with gold lights that cast a warm tint over the sidewalk leading to the red, carpet-covered steps.

Ellie can see Paul’s parents already making their way to the front doors, their town car peeling away from the curb. But then, a doorman is stepping in front of her window and opening the door for her and Ellie thinks she hates this part most of all.

She can open her own door, thank you.

But her mother nudges her out and Ellie goes, shivering, because the sun’s already set and it’s _November_ and at least Trinity understood that if you were making a girl wear a skirt you could have the decency to let her wear _stockings_.

“I still don’t get why I have to come,” Ellie mutters as she falls into step beside her mother as they climb the small set of steps towards the front doors. “It’s not like I have any money to donate.”

“It’s not about the fundraising,” her mother chides quietly, smiling at the men who open the front doors for them. “It’s the social part that matters.”

“I think you have that backwards,” Ellie grumbles, but pastes a smile on her face when Paul’s parents turn to wait for them to catch up. Ellie knows they’re only here because it’s practically a family motto to stand together and smile together and drop stupid amounts of money together.

And, for all that his parents might not have been… _thrilled_ when Paul brought home a single mother and her teenage daughter, they do, in fact, consider them _family_.

Paul’s mother holds out her arm for Ellie, a silent instruction for Ellie to walk with her that she obliges without complaint. (Because if she’s learned anything tonight, complaining will get her absolutely nowhere.)

“Smile, dear,” Gloria reminds her as they stroll through the hotel lobby and hand their coats over to the coat-check. “You look so much prettier when you smile.”

Ellie smiles, too tight and too fake, but it appeases Gloria as they check their coats; she thanks the man who takes hers, ignoring the face Gloria sends her at thanking him.

 _Too bad,_ Ellie thinks, gripping her clutch and gritting her teeth to stay quiet and keep smiling. _I’m going to thank everyone._

 

            Inside, it’s as glamorous and ridiculous as it is beautiful; a grand ballroom lined by pillars lit in soft white-golds and reds, massive bouquets of red flowers with a gilded glow to some of them. Small, round tables set up with white table cloths and the flickering centre pieces. Waiters already bearing trays lined with sparkling drinks, liquoring up fine-dressed men and women.

It's very much suited to the time of year, the fall colours easing into winter warm feeling of being indoors during the cold.

Which makes this weekend all that much _worse,_ because she knows the Hethridges have a large family dinner that Ellie will have to go to, no questions asked. She shoves it away, stomps it down inside of her and smiles and greets and speaks when she’s supposed to as Paul’s parents lead her around the room because if she thinks about it too long it’s going to be unbearable just getting through the night.

It is funny, she thinks, that both Paul and Nico had said the same sort of thing to her at different times: _you’re their first grandchild, they’re going to love you._

Ellie’s always wondered if that were true for Gloria and Samuel, if they really did care or if she was just part of the packaged deal: Mother and Daughter, two for the price of one. Son dates the mother, daughter tags along. Son marries the mother… daughter becomes _Hethridge._

 _Shit,_ she thinks, _the name change._ She hasn’t even thought about it since her last visit home and her mother fluffing off her questions about it like, _Peanut, why wouldn’t we all have the same name?_

And really, what can Ellie say to that?

_Sorry, mom, I actually met my real-life daddy and I don’t need the one you decided was the better choice?_

She blows out a breath, eyeing her mother a few steps away, arm linked through Paul’s. Every time she looks at her mother lately all she gets is _angry_ and _hurt_ —

Full of questions and accusations that she’s barely holding back.

It takes a lot to shove them down, but she does because she’s not stupid and Nico was right when he said it; _seventeen years, El, I say it’s a pretty fucking good indication, don’t you?_

Her mother has never and will never want to bring up who Ellie’s real father is, no matter how many times Ellie has asked. And it hurts, a little, she won't lie, knowing that her mother has spent so many years hiding, lying, implying that he didn't want her when really... when really he _does._

 

( _I want to keep you as long as you'll fucking let me.)_

 

 

           She gets sucked back into another conversation in another small group of finely dressed men and women before Samuel wanders off to greet someone else he knows, because who _don’t_ they know? And Ellie’s left with Gloria saying something about Trinity and university that Ellie only half pays attention to.

Ellie’s never felt comfortable at these things, and she’s thankful that while Paul maintains his family’s unofficial motto when he has to, he and his father do not exactly… well, Ellie isn’t sure, just that they don’t always get along.

But it looks like tonight they do.

She holds in her sigh, following Gloria into another conversation for hellos and superficial _how are you? Your family? Just lovely and you?_

 

What’s one more time, really?

 

 

            She knows it hasn’t been more than two hours, even though it feels like it, but when she wanders away from Gloria on the pretense of a bathroom break, she steals a glance at her phone and finds that it’s only been an hour, she feels like she could cry.

“Did you want to dance?” a voice behind her says, and Ellie turns, finding a young, well-dressed man, _boy_ , she thinks, because can’t be much older than her, standing behind her and half-hidden behind one of the massive floral arrangements.

“Uh, no,” Ellie says, blinking. “I mean, no thank you?”

The boy grins, his hair a light brown, shaved short at the sides but falling longer on the top of his head. A dark, metallic looking earring circling his earlobe.

When he smirks, lifting his champagne glass to his lips, Ellie sees a flash of ink along his wrist.

She can’t help but think he doesn’t quite belong.

“You sure?” he says, eyes glittering. “You seem like you aren’t  sure.”

Ellie’s pretty sure he has ink along his neck too, barely visible beneath the collar of his suit, which is a little too loose around the neck, like he hates wearing ties.

 _Definitely_ doesn’t fit in with the rest of the room.

“No, I’m good,” she says again, looking over her shoulder towards her mother who’s vanished into the crowd somewhere. “I’m just here with my…parents, so.”

He nods, looking like he’s holding back a smile. “Alright, girl. No worries.”

Ellie narrows her eyes at him, looking him over again. “You from around here?”

He shrugs, smile tilting out again. “New York born and bred. You?”

“Yeah. What school?”

He snorts, tilting the rest of his flute into his mouth, swallowing the too-large gulp. “Not really one for school.”

“Right,” Ellie starts, frowning, eyes narrowed. “You here with your parents?”

The boy’s eyebrows rise, a little smirk on his mouth “You always interrogate boys you shoot down?”

“It’s just a question,” Ellie argues, rolling her eyes. “I didn’t shoot you down, I just don’t want to dance with you.”

“Just sayin’ lot of questions for someone who doesn’t want to dance with me.”

She huffs a breath. “Seriously? I’m sure you can find another nice, lonely girl to dance with you.”

He sends her a quick grin. “Yeah, but I was asking you.”

Ellie scoffs, “I’m not _lonely._ ”

He shrugs, stuffing his champagne glass in one of the bouquets, Ellie’s eyebrows climb, watching him. “Looked lonely.”

Ellie curls her hand tighter around her clutch, biting her cheek. Wondering if she actually did, or if he’s just being a dick. “You never answered my question.”

He lifts a brow.

“Your parents?”

The boy shoves his hands in his pockets, like he isn’t used to wearing a suit, how to keep the lines clean and neat; he smiles, sharp and quick. “You sure you don’t want to dance?”

Ellie rolls her eyes, turning away from him and ignoring his little laugh as she walks away; searching the crowd to find her mother, but all she finds is Paul.

 _Good enough_ , she thinks, making her way across the room towards Paul, who’s better than his parents, at least.

“Hey,” she says, and accepts Paul’s arm when he holds it out, taking the chance to roll her feet in her heels, already stiff from standing.

“Doing alright?” he asks, looking at her while she switches to her other foot. “Need anything?”

 _My dad,_ she thinks. _His bed. His mouth. His dick. All of the above._

“I’m good,” she lies, forcing a smile. She’s not _lonely,_ she thinks. _Fuck that kid._ “Where’s mom?”

“Off with my mother, something about the wedding, I think there’s a few guests here that are on the invite list.”

Ellie nods, having nothing to really say to that.

“Don’t worry,” he says quieter. “We won’t stay long, I know you don’t like these things.”

“I—” Ellie starts, surprised by his concern. “I didn’t think you did either.” 

He shrugs. “Not really, Father was particular we come to this one though, as it’s _for education._ And that is ‘ _my profession._ ”

Ellie blinks, eyeing him and his tone. “He doesn’t like that you’re a teacher?”

Paul huffs a laugh, sipping his champagne. “I appeased him by working at Trinity. At least it’s got the reputation, history and…social connections he wants.”

“Where’d you want to work?”

He shrugs. “Teaching rich kids who don’t need grades to get into university doesn’t exactly make for the most fulfilling sense of accomplishment, you know?”

“Hate to tell you, Paul, but you’re kinda a rich kid, too,” Ellie says, offering him a smile.

He lifts a brow, but laughs a little, looking down at his champagne. “Yeah. I know. Sometimes a last name can—”

“Ah, here they are,” a voice says, breaking through their conversation. “This is the son I was telling you about, and our granddaughter, Ellie.”

Ellie looks up, stumbles, and nearly drops her flute before Paul stabilizes her, his arm tightening, face concerned as he helps her steady herself.

“Are you alright?” he asks, holding her arm as she finds her balance again, her cheeks burning as she rushes out, _yes, sorry, fine, I’m fine._

“Paul, Ellie,” Samuel greets, clearing his throat to grab their attention, like Ellie isn’t already completely _aware of him._ “This is Nicolas—”

Nico glances at her, his hair all thick and dark, more styled than usual, a slight rise to the front of it before it sits closer to his head, shiny and sleek. With his jaw broad shaved clean, he looks younger, even more like a magazine ad come to life; a model right off a photoshoot. His suit sleek and dark, a satin-shine to the lapel, the red pocket square a bright spot on his broad chest.

Ellie seriously doubts she’s the _only_ one staring.

 _Shit,_ Ellie thinks as she swallows, her stomach twisting tight, her teeth in her cheek, trying to stay still and not just… _fling herself at him._

_That would be too desperate, wouldn’t it?_

“—a very good client of mine.”

Nico’s eyes move over her too quickly, like he honestly doesn’t even register her as a person he knows, his gaze shifting to Paul, his face a mask of politeness; a slight smile, his eyes focused but empty.

“Nice to meet you,” Paul says, his hand coming off Ellie’s side to shake Nico’s hand. “We have you to thank for this then, I assume?”

“Only a very little, and I’d rather stay mostly anonymous,” Nico smiles, crooked, roguish, and still not looking at Ellie.

It makes her want to scream a little.

“Your father was really the reason this all got accomplished so quickly.”

“It was rather last minute,” Samuel nods. “But coming so close to the Christmas season, we had to act fast. And I always believe efficiency and drive are the keys to success.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Nico says, _still not looking at her._

Ellie wants to scream at him, to make him just _look_ at her. _Nico,_ she wants to scream, _look at me._

She’s angry at herself for just how much she wants his fucking attention. Just his eyes on hers. Just… _anything._

“I’ve heard Trinity is the top Preparatory school on this coast, you must be quite pleased to teach there.”

“It is a very well-respected school,” Paul nods. “The students all have promising futures, I’m quite sure.”

Ellie gets distracted by Paul for only a second, nearly wanting to laugh because he just said what he really thinks of some of his students, she glances at him and Paul puts his arm around her; his hand at her back.

She glances back at Nico, can’t help it, as soon as she understands where Paul is moving his arm, a mindless, _fatherly_ move she realizes he’s done so many times before.

Nico’s eyes stay focused on Paul’s face for a heartbeat— and then they flick down to Paul’s arm, to Ellie’s waist, like he couldn’t quite stop himself; like he can burn a hole right through her and see where Paul’s hand is.

Paul’s hand at her back is a touch not all that different in theory to the one Nico used to lead her into that restaurant on their first not-date, but somehow, in reality… it couldn’t be more different.

A heat, a weight, a feather-light fantasy of _almost_ and _maybe_ and _could-be._

Nico’s eyes flick back up to Paul, his face empty but something…something predatory in the flick of his eyes.

 “This is my daughter, Ellie,” Paul says, his arm warm and steadying behind her back while Ellie feels seconds from bursting into movement. Or into a scream, she isn’t sure. “She’s actually finishing up her last year at Trinity. One of my best students, easily.”

_Daughter._

It hits them both at the same time, she knows it. Nico doesn’t react, but there’s something so empty about his face that she’s only just understanding as him controlling himself; a careful, empty blankness hiding whatever he’s feeling underneath.

She’s seen it a few times, that stillness, that too-calm lie of an exterior.

And it’s a lie. She’s sure of it.

His jaw ticks, nothing more than a twitch of a tendon, before he smiles, sharp and white and wide—

And he looks at her.

“Ellie,” he says, his voice polite, like he’s never said her name before and it— it hurts a little, whatever this game is. She hates the idea of it. The play of it. The pretend, even for a moment, that he isn’t hers and she isn’t fucking his.

She wants to hurt him. Deal it back. _Fuck you,_ she thinks, _fuck you for not warning me you were going to pull this shit. Fuck you for making me think I wasn’t going to see you._

_Fuck you and your ‘I’ll see you soon, I promise.’_

His hand comes out, his eyes on hers, but there’s nothing in them she can understand, just weight and pressure and a shadowy sort of anger.

 _Good_ , she thinks, _you deserved that._

(And still, Ellie swears it takes every ounce of her willpower and locked-kneed body to not throw herself at him and beg him to steal her away.)

“Lovely to meet you.”

Ellie nods, teeth so tight in her cheek she can taste blood. She wants to scream at him, ask him what the fuck he’s doing here— even as she lifts her hand to take his.

Their hands touch, but for the weight of his eyes, his face doesn’t change as his palm slides against hers, his fingers brush her wrist and she knows it has to be intentional, a stroke of his thumb along the inside of her wrist, barely noticeable but she’s so strung tight she thinks she can hear his heartbeat like a echoing thump beneath hers.

“Is there anything you think your educational career lacks?”

“I could do without the curfew,” she says, trying not to react to his touch; feeling the staticky-electric brush of his hand travel through her body.

The men laugh, Nico grins, a sharp quick thing that fades into a proper-edged smile quickly, his eyes on hers for no more than a heartbeat before he’s looking away.

“I like that,” he says with a conversational humour, only briefly glancing at her again. “Well educated and well humoured. Trinity must be treating you well.”

Or something, she thinks.

“It is, sir, thank you.”

His eyes flick to hers again, just for a second, before he looks to Paul and a conversation starts about donations and what _areas do you think need the most improvement?_

She tries to pay attention, she does, but she’s torn between staring at him and scanning the crowd for her mother, or for Gloria, because—

Because what the fuck was he thinking, coming here?

Ellie _told_ him—

But Paul’s words ring back to her, _we have you to thank for this then?_

Ellie looks back at Nico, watches him smile at something Paul says, his mouth moving, a glass in his hand, a glint of his watch, his hair dark and thick and his eyes—

 _It won’t be that long really,_ he’d said on the phone. _You’ll see._

And Ellie had whined, complained because she thought he meant the two weekends she couldn’t see him and really, really he was—

Was what?

“You organized this?” Ellie blurts, interrupting the men around her. Samuel frowns at Ellie’s interruption, Paul’s words cut off mid-sentence.

Nico’s mouth twitches, a spark of something in his eyes, the first real sign of him in them. “I had a hand in it.”

“Nicolas has expressed some interest in improving general education in the city,” Samuel adds. “And seeing as we’re strong supporters ourselves, it all worked out rather well. Serendipitous, even.”

Ellie swallows, nods, and Nico looks away again; she forces herself to look away as well, to scan the crowd again, strung tight for a sight of her mother because how could he come here knowing she was too?

How stupid is he?

If Loren knows him— _has known him for years—_ Then she has to be able to recognize him now. What would she do if she saw Ellie with him?

Ellie’s hand goes white-knuckled on her clutch, her stomach tensing and rolling; glancing at Nico again, his eyes so focused _off_ of her and playing at normal that she makes up her mind.

She leans a little more into Paul, her eyes focused just between Samuel and Nico, just enough to see them both, to look like she’s paying attention when all she’s really doing is watching Nico.

His hand tightens on the flute of champagne, his other arm twitches, but he shifts his stance, just a little, like nothing more than an unconscious movement.

But he doesn’t look at her.

 _Ha,_ she thinks. _Got you._

“Ellie’s definitely one of the brightest in my class,” Paul says, looking down at her with a smile and she hates herself a little for playing him. “She has a very quick mind, though you should see her temper when we debate. She’s got quite the mouth.”

“I can only imagine,” Nico says, a tick in his jaw and his eyes flicking to her; Ellie smiles at him, polite, the same one she’s been using all night before looking at Paul, his arm still behind her.

“That’s what I get for living with a teacher,” she jokes. “A lot of opinions on a lot of things. And books, so many books.”

They laugh and Nico eyes her, a searching look that lasts nothing more than a blink before he’s falling back into conversation with Samuel like Ellie isn’t there at all.

She still can’t find her mother in the crowd and can’t tear her eyes away from Nico long enough to search, but her nerves grow the longer she watches him, the longer he stands and talks and acts like he didn’t just spend Sunday in bed with her.

Like he isn’t her fucking _daddy._

She excuses herself quickly, politely, pulling out of Paul’s loose hold and heading towards the washrooms without a look back.

She just needs a fucking _minute_ , she thinks, just one minute to breathe.

 

 

 

           It’s cold and quiet and dim in the washrooms, lit by a wall sconces giving off a softer glow. A smell of lavender and cleaning products, a faint hiss of running water and—

Her mother, dabbing at the waist of her dress and muttering to herself.

“ _Mom_?” Ellie asks, her brows rising.

Her mother looks up, and in the mirror catches sight of Ellie before she turns to face her. “Some stupid fuckin’ boy spilled his drink on me,” she curses.

Ellie blinks, moves further into washroom and towards the sinks, grabbing one of the hand towels on the counter, and offering a drier one to her mother. “Is it bad? It’s just champagne right?”

“No,” she huffs and then sighs, blotting her stomach. “And yes, you can’t really see it. I just can feel it.”

“Oh…” her brain falters a little, watching her mother dab and clench the fabric of her dress in the towel. Thinking about her in here, about Nico out there…

That’s too coincidental, isn’t it?

“This was an _expensive_ dress,” her mother curses, and Ellie pushes her lips together, not knowing what to say.

“You can’t see anything, I swear.”

“I _know_ —” Loren bites out, cuts off, dropping her hands and closing her eyes. “I know that, Peanut, sorry. I always get tense around his parents, it’s stupid.”

Ellie shrugs. She gets it, mostly. Paul is the Hethridge’s only son, and their oldest. Him marrying a single mother probably wasn’t what they had in mind for him.

“It’s fine.”

“There isn’t even a hand drier in here, can you believe that?” her mother forces a smile, trying for humour. Ellie lets her pretend and smiles back.

“Rich people,” she sighs, shaking her head, smiling a little more when her mother laughs, shakes her head and blows out a breath before dropping her dress like she gives up.

“How are you holding up? I know you hate these things,” she asks, reaching out to tuck a loose curl of Ellie’s low bun back behind her ear. “It’s probably dull spending so much time with Gloria, huh?”

Loren pulls Ellie to stand in front of her, facing the mirror. Standing behind her, her mother is only a few inches taller than Ellie, a little higher than normal in her shoes.

She undoes a bobby pin, fixing the fallen strand and repining it.

“Paul asked the same thing,” Ellie says, instead of answering because she can’t say: _my dad’s out there and I think he constructed this whole thing just to see me even though he knows you’re here and you hate him._

_And I’m not sure how I feel about that._

Loren smiles, patting Ellie’s bun and meeting her eyes in the mirror. “Did he?”

Ellie nods, and watches the smile in her mother’s eyes, knowing she’s thinking about Paul because they _love each other and it’s obvious._

And it’s that look that makes Ellie guilty for being angry and accusatory, for being upset…when her mother is clearly, plainly… _happy._

Who is Ellie to deny her that?

“I think he’s talking to the guy that Samuel set this up with,” she says without thinking, feels the words leave her mouth before she can stop them.

“Oh,” her mother says, meeting her eyes again. “That’s nice. Another rich prick?”

Ellie’s lips twitch. Because he _is._

He’s also got a very nice _prick._

“Think so.”

“What’s his name?”

Ellie blinks, thinks about lying, the _I don’t know,_ on her tongue. “Nicolas, I think.”

She bites her tongue, watching her mother in the mirror, a momentary pause as she rights something on the back of Ellie’s dress.

A blink-and-you-miss-it pause. But it’s there.

“Don’t think I’ve heard him mentioned before,” she says at length, not looking at Ellie. “Maybe he’s a new account.”

“Maybe,” Ellie says, as her mother turns to the mirror to right her own dress, touching the same spot twice. “You really can’t see it.”

Loren smiles, forced, fake, tense—

“Didn’t catch a last name, did you?” she asks, her hand on her stomach.

Ellie shakes her head, because it’s not a lie. Samuel only introduced him as Nicolas. “Older though,” she lies, said he was interested in public education or something.”

Her mother eases at that, like some how she thinks that can’t possibly apply to the man that’s so obviously in her head. Ellie can’t help but wonder why.

Did the Nico she know…was he really that different?

 _Not that I can blame her, I was a cocky fucking prick back then,_ he’d said.

“Ready to head back?” Loren asks her hand out, fingers wiggling.

Ellie blinks, looking down at her hand. “I’m just… bathroom,” she lies, nodding towards the stalls.

Her mother smiles and nods, “Alright, I’m going to find Paul, meet you back in there, Peanut.”

Ellie lingers by the sinks for a too long moment, staring at nothing until she hears the click of heels and two older women come in, dressed to the nines, chests too-perfect, faces too-perfect, smiles too-perfect when they see her.

Ellie sends a tight smile back and slips into a stall, standing and listening to them gossip before she blows out a breath and flushes, forcing herself to wash her hands and ignore them beside her fluffing their hair and righting their dresses over too-perfect breasts, leaning forward to reapply lipstick over too-pouty lips.

She wipes off the gloss on her lips, itches to undo her hair, but can’t help but think how out of place these things always make her feel. How much she feels like she’s got _poor_ stuck to back, like she’s just as obvious as that boy, she just doesn’t have tattoos.

It’s a mean thought, but it bubbles up inside of her anyway, that she can’t and doesn’t imagine herself here, like her mother, like those women…caring about social niceties, about appearances, about money.

But, even Nico…

Smiled so easily, blended in so well, even if he seemed wholly other, too big, too well-defined to suit the others in the room.

A different kind of man, but a part of them, nonetheless.

She doesn’t know what to with the all the images of him she has. The one that fucked her on an old mattress in the tiny apartment he grew up in. The one that took her to dinner at a food truck. The one that brought her lunch in little take out containers.

And then, this Nico, the Nico who took her to that restaurant. The Nico that drives sleek cars and has a watch worth more than a lot of people’s pay checks.  The Nico that has men watching her for him.

The Nico that owns a gun.

The Nico that kisses her like—

Like—

Like she’s _something._

 

            As she’s pushing out of the bathroom, she comes face to face with that boy from before, his tie even looser than it was earlier, more ink showing along his neck. Ellie sort of wants to tell him it’s a bad idea to look like he does here, unless he likes the side-eye.

The quiet judgement. (The, _yeah, heard she’s from New Rochelle, think her mom’s banging Mister Hethridge._ )

“Shit, girl, thought you fell in,” the boy says, standing straighter and pushing off the wall to close the distance between them before he extends his hand. “Name’s Liam, by the way.”

When Ellie hesitates to take it, he lifts a brow.

Ellie sighs, reaching out, something clicking into place as she looks at him. “You were the one who spilled the drink on my mother, huh?”

He grins, and Ellie feels something hard in his hand, square and flat as he presses it into her palm before he lets go, turning to leave, lifting a hand as he goes. “See ya around, Ellie.”

Ellie looks down, a keycard in her hand, white with a black decal on the front signifying the Plaza. Ellie flips it over, frowning.

_Room 512_

 

With a flutter in her stomach, Ellie palms the card, looking around her to make sure there’s no one watching her, most of all someone she knows.

But there’s just staff and hotel guests milling around; Ellie sets her teeth in her bottom lip and debates it only for the second it takes to scan the space for anyone watching her.

She heads towards the elevators, her heels clicking on the marble floors in a steady, heartbeat sort of rhythm.

 

She rides the elevator up, ignoring the glance her way from the couple already in the elevator, tourists, she guesses, based on the luggage and the cellphones in hand.

“That’s a lovely dress,” the woman smiles, her eyes crinkling.

“Thanks,” Ellie smiles, feeling nervous the higher the elevator climbs. Her toes curling in her heels, fingers fiddling with the thin, red lace sleeves of her dress.

The elevator stops at five and Ellie slips out, smiling tightly at the couple before the doors shut and she’s alone in the long hallway to follow the room numbers towards 512.

When she finds it, she pulls in a breath, touches her stomach, rights her skirt, looks down at the tremble in her hands and wonders why she’s nervous. She spreads her hands wide, relaxes them, blows out her breath and slips the keycard into the slot.

It clicks, turns green and she barely steps in the door before there are hands on her waist, gripping her thighs, pulling her up, and pushing her back against the closing door.

Held against a hard body, Nico’s mouth is on hers before her back even hits the door.

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

            His mouth is on hers in less than a blink, thinks he meant to apologise first, to say he’s sorry for not telling her, but hearing _daughter,_ watching that fucker _touch her—_

And Nico had to stand there and _let him_ because he thought he could handle pretending he didn't know her, (hadn't touched her, kissed her, fucked her) and it _killed_ him, just a little to even look at her.

He grips her ass, his fingers curving, bruising into her cheeks, feeling the soft of her underwear, and loosens his fingers only enough to work his fingers under the hem, to get at more skin, pushing the fabric out of his way.

The kiss isn’t nice, isn’t slow, isn’t careful—

More like that first kiss, the one in the elevator, so full of desperation that there wasn’t anything in him but a need to taste all of her, touch all of her, commit her to memory before he lost the chance.

Ellie’s hands tear at his tie and he swears her fingers tremble as she scratches her nails across his neck, getting her hands beneath his collar, like she’s as desperate for skin as he is.

He’s desperate to fuck her, all his plans to be smooth and sure and tell her _see, I told you it wouldn’t be so long…_ fall away into a need to strip her— or fuck that, to lift her up and push her underwear aside, to sink inside of her just like this, desperate and rough and just like their kiss; more teeth and bruising, hungry licks instead of the sweet _finally, finally_ of tasting her again.

“Fuck you,” she groans, bites his lip, pulling herself higher in his arms, before pushing at him, a trembling, squirming movement; push, pull, push, pull, her voice whiny and torn. “Fuck me. _God_ —”

And God, does he want to.

But there’s not enough time, not enough time to work her open, to get her liquid-loose and stretched on his fingers… not enough time to make sure he won’t hurt her.

And he’d rather die wanting than hurt her.

He shifts her in his grip, pressing her harder against the door, pinning her there and holding her up with one hand on her ass and his body weight, chest to chest. Swallows the noise she makes, scrapes his teeth over the soft, plump sweetness of her bottom lip; slips his other hand beneath her, following the hem of her underwear and shoving it aside, her cunt soft and hot and already a little slick as he follows the seam of her, one stroke just to feel her.

She nips his lip, her hips grinding, her nails blunt and sharp in his skin—

He can’t help but watch her face as he sinks two fingers inside of her.

Watches the hitching, body tensing, back-arching thump of her head hitting the door when they fill her up.

The sight alone is nearly enough to undo him.

Her mouth parted, voice cracking on an _oh g-od;_ face scrunched, hips rolling and desperate for more even as she adjusts to the width of his fingers.

But he doesn’t give her much time, curls his fingers, works them hard and quick and merciless against those nerves inside of her. Shoves his thumb against the already wet band of her underwear, slips it under it to find her clit, slippery and hot and just for him.

 _Just for him_ , he knows. No matter what game she was playing, and she was playing with him, like the little short-tempered brat she is.

 _She’s got quite the mouth,_ Hethridge had said.

 _Yeah,_ he thinks _, wouldn’t you like to know, you prick._

“You’re mine, Ellie,” he groans, against that mouth, because it’s _his._ Because she’s soaked for _him_ already and he fucking _loves_ it. Rubs her steady, his thumb slippery and weighted on her clit, her voice pitching higher, her heart thumping faster, her cunt slippery in his palm, “Hear that? You’re fucking soaked, princess.”

She whines, some strained, sound that sounds suspiciously like _asshole—_ and he laughs, grins, kisses her sloppily, messily, because she’s panting and breathless and her mouth slips away over his cheek in a glide of her mouth that trails a _fuck you_ in the scrape of her teeth on his jaw.

“Like this,” he grits into her neck, sucks the soft, warm skin of her pulse, another hitch of a noise, the same one she makes every time he marks her up a little, loves that sound he thinks, a little hitch of pleasure for such a small thing as a hickey. “Fuck you like this? Or more?”

“More,” she sobs, clings on, squirms down, cunt squelching against his palm. “Please—”

“Please what, baby?”

 _Please, Daddy, please,_ she cries, a little shove, her fist closing into his jacket, a sob of need in her throat that makes his cock ache all that much more; strained and aching in his pants.

He knows he’s being too rough, but he tucks another finger inside of her anyway, loving the strained, spine rolling arc she stretches into, her nails sharp on the back of his neck, her hand clenching, unclenching on his jacket, gripping higher, lower, her body unstable, squirming, unable to ever stay still.

“Good girl,” he hushes, kisses beside her mouth, “You’re such good girl for me, Ellie, aren’t you?”

Her cheeks burn red, her eyes clenching shut like it hurts her to hear him even as she nods, bites her lip, scrapes her teeth over it before whining, _yes, Daddy._

“Because you’re mine, huh?” he whispers, watches her face, every flicker of tension and ecstasy and wishes it were his cock her sweet little cunt was clenching around and not just his fingers. “You’re my girl, aren’t you?”

She nods, but it’s jerky and uncoordinated; her body tensing, thighs shaking, hips rolling—barely gets through a _ohfuck_ before she’s clamping down on his fingers, body a live-wire ending, pushing and pulling away from him even as her cunt squeezes against his fingers, grinding against them, chasing more as her body rebels.

It’s fucking perfect.

“My pretty little thing,” he groans, keeps stroking his thumb over her clit just to hear her whine, to catch the open gasp of her mouth, to lick into it, to fucking revel in every little clench of cunt and spasm, hitch, twitch of her body.

She kisses him back, or tries to, but she whines, squirms, thighs shaking around him and he knows he’s not done yet, even though he knows he should be.

He hauls her away from the door, fingers slipping out of her only long enough to drop her on the bed. To push her down, shoving his hands under the red layers of her dress and shoving it up as he curls his fingers around the soft satiny fabric of her underwear, biting back a groan at how wet it is.

How wet _she is_ between her thighs when he spreads them, licks up one pale thigh to chase the taste while pulling her hips to the edge of the bed and kneeling down.

He spreads her, leans in, licks a broad stripe right up the middle of her cunt and grins at that little _hnng_ noise that comes out of her throat.

Does it again and has to hold down her thighs a little harder as they twitch to close even as her hips roll up, eager for more.

Nico groans, licks her up, chases the desperate roll of her hips and strokes his tongue over her. Chases that sweet, slickness that leaks out of her, swirls his tongue so he can swallow every drop of it down.

He’s never tasted anything so sweet, he knows; sinks his tongue inside of her, gathers more of that honeyed-sweetness and drags it over her clit, making is slick and soaked and slippery before scraping his teeth over that hot little nub and sucking at it, grinding his face into her.

“Oh _fu—_ ” Ellie cries out, cuts off; her hips rolling into his face more, a perfect, stutter-y, desperate roll that makes him ache; his cock painful enough in his pants he has to reach down to adjust himself, letting her thigh close on his head while he shifts the weight of his dick.

 _It’s been way too fucking long,_ he thinks, pressing his mouth harder against her, letting her cunt slide slippery over his mouth. _Way too long._

Thinks he’ll drop by for lunches like he used to, just to get her on his tongue. Lean the seat back and hold her up to his mouth to let her ride his face—

 _Yeah_ , he thinks, and has to press his palm against his cock to contain himself. _Definitely needs to happen._

He knows she’s trying to be quiet, but the ruffles of her skirt hide her face and he pauses only long enough to gather the red of it and grip it, to watch her head tilt back, her hand pressed over her mouth, her moans muted but barely any quieter.

He wants to laugh, but she’s grinding against him and he wants, _needs_ her to come, to hear her voice break, to have her cry out for him—

He groans, can’t catch it, pulls her hips a little lower and sinks one finger inside of her, holds back another groan at the tensing of her body, the clench of her around one finger—

She’s so fucking tight even after just making her come.

And there, he hears it, muffled and broken, but there, caught in her hand.

_D-daddy_

He sucks at her clit, strokes his tongue over it, flicks and pulls and waits for that slick sound from his fingers— and _there_ , a slippery wet noise, a drip along his palm, sinks another finger inside of her and curls them, strokes that little bundle inside of her as her voice cracks louder, his name—

Not his name, not exactly.

 _Daddy-Daddy-Daddy_ , a desperate, quivering need out of her mouth, her hands gripping at the duvet, tattooing wrinkles into the smooth white fabric as her back climbs, her spine tightens, her head tilts—

He doesn’t think he could ever get tired of watching her.

Ellie gets hotter, wetter, fucking _tighter_ as he rubs at her, fast and desperate to get her off again. Knowing they don’t really have that much time, that it was stupid to take her when her mother was so close, but he couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t stop himself. Couldn’t _not._

She comes in a rush, her voice breaking, her hips rolling, her body strained and cunt clenching around his fingers hard enough to make him curse and groan into her; chasing the twitching, over-sensitive roll of her hips trying to get away from his mouth as he licks her up, chases the sweetness, the rush, the leak of her release.

He stretches his fingers inside of her, licking her with the flat of his tongue, loving each hitch of her hips, each hitch of her breath, each over-sensitive whine from her lips.

Pushes them deep, spreads them a little, works her open just to feel every little tremor of her muscles around him. To see the pink of her, the wet gleam around his fingers.

She really is pretty everywhere. Kisses her clit, the tense tendon on her inner thigh, chases a slow-dripping leak along his fingers that makes him groan.

Until her hand knots into his hair, pulling his mouth away. Her cheeks flushed, her lips red, the sweetest thing he’s ever seen.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he smiles, licks his lips, tries to lean back down, but her fingers tighten.

He likes it more than he should.

“What the fuck, Nico?”

 _Nico_ , he thinks. _That’s not good._ “What happened to daddy?”

Ellie flushes, pushing her heel into the meat of his shoulder, scowling… _pouting_ at him.

“I’m mad at you.”

“Don’t be mad, baby,” he hushes, kissing the spread of her before her hand tightens again, a tremble in her body. “I couldn’t help it.”

“You’re an asshole,” she huffs, letting go of his hair and trying to push away. But he holds her close, crawling over her, pushing his fingers against those nerves, his thumb against her clit, watching her gasp, her toes curl, her head turning as her body rolls through the burst of pleasure.

Has to do it again, just to see it again, the slick pink of her cunt, his fingers buried inside of her as he stretches out beside her on the bed, holding one of her legs between his own, rubbing at her a little more just to watch her. Wonders how many times he can make her come and thinks he definitely needs to find out.

He stops, because if he doesn’t _he won’t—_ kisses her cheek, the side of her mouth, waiting for her to turn her head and kiss him back.

But she avoids his mouth.

“You had this whole thing planned, didn’t you?” she mumbles into his neck, her body twitching when he strokes his thumb over her clit again. Just because he can.

“You said you didn’t want to go this weekend,” he offers, pressing it into her skin, kissing her cheek again. “Now you don’t have to.”

Ellie turns her head, blinking up at him, her brows sunk together. “That’s why you did it?”

“‘Course. Why did you think I bothered with all this?”

Ellie blinks, sits up, his fingers slipping out of her, sliding wetly over her thigh where he cups it. Waiting and watching her as she twists to look back at him.

“You spent all this money just because I was complaining about going home this weekend?”

Nico eyes her, taking in her mussed hair, the flush, her confused, frowny face.

“Yes,” he says slowly, lifting a brow. _Wasn’t that obvious,_ he thinks. “And it really wasn’t that much money.”

Ellie’s mouth opens, shuts. “It’s the _Plaza_ … it’s like a thousand _a night_ here. And you threw a _fundraiser_.”

“ _Sweetheart_ ,” he laughs, pulling her back down to kiss her cheek, her pink mouth, slack and soft as she frowns at him. “You think I care how much it costs to spend time with you? This was completely fucking self-serving.”

“How much did you spend?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, kissing her again, but she turns her cheek again and he sighs. Lifting his wet hand to push a finger against her cheek and turn her back. “Hey. Look at me. Don’t worry about it.”

“How _much_ ,” she insists, something pouty in her bottom lip.

He tilts his head, searching her face before blowing out a breath and looking away; debating the truth before he says: “A couple hundred.”

Ellie scowls, confused. “That’s a lie there’s no way—”

“Hundred _thousand_ ,” he clarifies. “With the ballroom and catering and staff and the donation to start the fundraiser.”

Ellie frowns, her face twisting as she rolls away from him, brushing off his hand trying to catch her waist.

“El—” he starts, his brows sinking together as she stumbles to her feet. “Sweetheart, come on. It’s nothing.”

“A couple hundred thousand!” she hisses, stumbling again before ripping off her shoes. “A couple _hundred thousand_!”

He sits up, his brows climbing his forehead, watching her pace away, crossing her arms before turning back to face him. He has no idea what the fuck her face is saying. Angry, offended, pissed off—

“Ellie,” he says, softer, reaching out for her again, catching her wrist to tug her into him, to cup her face as she tries to look away, holding her still as she glares, and scowls and looks all of her seventeen years.

If not less, in the moment. Which makes his stomach twist, his teeth clench to hold the guilt away.

Kisses her forehead, her nose, the pout in her bottom lip. “Baby, I’d empty my fucking bank account for you. I’d rather live in that tiny, parquet-floored apartment with you for the rest of my fucking life than one day in my loft without you. You understand?”

Ellie doesn’t answer, but her lip trembles and her eyes water and he thinks something breaks inside of him at the sight.

Brushes his thumb over her lip, kisses her again, catches the hitch in her breath and wants to steal it, swallow it, make her fucking smile.

“ _Hey_ ,” he hushes, low and soft and aching. “Why are you crying?”

She shakes her head, her chest hitching, leaning into him and sinking the noise into her shoulder, his neck, wrapping her arms around his neck and clinging on as he gathers her closer, pulls her into his lap and holds on.

She doesn’t cry, but he thinks it’s more that she’s clinging onto her silence, clenching it in her teeth the same way he’s gnawing at that swelling guilt inside of him the longer he keeps her up here, looking young and hurt and confused.

“I’m sorry,” he says into her shoulder, pressing a kiss into it the red lace of her dress. “I just—”

Ellie shakes her head, her back hitching again. “ _Shut u-up_.”

So he does. Bites back the _wanted to see you_ end to his sentence and holds her tighter, lets her bury her anger and tears in his shoulder and soak it into his jacket.

 

            Eventually she pulls away, letting him cup her cheeks and stroke his thumbs under her eyes, a little red and a little wet, not that sobbing, messy cry that had broken his heart the first time, that first drive home, when he’d held her in the car and knew there was no way he was going to be able to let her go again.

He carries her to the bathroom, sets her on the counter, wets a fluffy white face cloth and cools it in the sink, squeezes it out and lets her press it to her cheeks, her lips, under her eyes.

“This backfired a little, huh?” he says, trying to smooth out her hair. “I really only meant to eat you out until you cried, not just make you cry.”

Ellie laughs a little, a shaky smile that nearly hurts as much as the tears do.

“You’re stupid,” she mutters.

“I’m stupid?” he asks, tucking some of the fraying pieces of her low bun into something less like she’s been rubbing her head against a bed. “Why am I stupid?”

“My _mom_ is here.”

“I know,” he says, tilting her head up, pressing a kiss to her cold lips, quick, chaste, before he smirks at her. “But I’m very good at what I do, sweetheart.”

“And what do you do?” she says quietly, curious. Cute.

“Whatever I fucking want to,” he smiles, watches it land, watches her roll her eyes and huff out a muttered _such a dick._

“I’m serious, she could’ve seen you,” she huffs, poking at his chest.

“So? She doesn’t know we know each other, you did a pretty good job of acting like you didn’t know me… minus the obvious eye-fucking.”

“Hey!” Ellie laughs, shoving at him. “Fuck off, I did not.”

“You did, it was very…I’ve seen you naked—” he teases, stepping back between her legs when she tries to shove him again, laughing and pink-cheeked. “Very, I know what his dick looks like.”

“I did _not_!”

He laughs as she smacks his hands away, trying to twist away from him, but he gathers her up, catching her hands and pinning them behind her back in his, their fingers linked.

“It’s alright though,” he smiles, leaning down to catch her mouth, her chest tight to his, her body angled back a little to meet his mouth. “I was thinking about your sweet little pussy and how much I wanted to eat it.”

“Yeah?” she breathes out, her pupils blown, her face flushed, her lips so soft and pink he can’t think properly.

 _Yeah,_ he exhales, catches her mouth, and licks his way inside.

It builds so quickly between them, like a feed-back loop of electricity, sparking nerve endings that melt and pool inside of them. Every hitch of her breath against his mouth, every stroke of her tongue, sharp edge of her teeth, sweet press of her lips.

Deeper and deeper, rougher kisses and tightening spines, pressing into each other, her arms tensing, hands squirming beneath his until he lets them go and they wrap around his shoulders, fist his jacket, pull him that last little fucking atomic inch closer.

But there’s no real space and no real air between them, so he breaks his mouth away, a wet, hot trail of his mouth over her cheek, a scrape of his teeth to her jaw, a bite to her neck—

Nico can feel her heart beating against his chest and knows his is just as thunderous, and sometimes, _sometimes_ it pisses him off how much she affects him.

How lost in a kiss, a touch, a fucking _look—_

He wasn’t lying when he told her that he was fucked the moment he saw her, and every step closer he took towards her was nothing more than an inching, gleaming guillotine bearing down for his neck.

And all he could do was watch it.

 “You need to get back,” he mutters into her neck, his hands flat on the sink behind her, flat-palmed and white-tipped fingers trying to keep his hands off her. “Before your mother worries where you got off to.”

Ellie huffs, her head turning into his jaw, her lips hot and soft, a smile spreading. “Who I got off to, you mean.”

He laughs, a quick burst of it out of his chest, leaning back as Ellie wraps her arms tighter around his neck, her legs around his waist. “Funny.”

“I thought so,” she mumbles, tucking her head into his neck as he tries to stand straighter. 

“El—” he starts, but she squirms and clings tighter, her little _no_ , nothing more than a mutinous mumble into his skin.

He smiles, hears her protest, her _nuh-huh…_ pushes lightly at her hips, laughing, kissing her shoulder, her neck, her cheek, until she finally looks at him.

“Don’t want to,” she pouts and he kisses it away because anything else would include kidnapping.

Not that he hasn’t thought about it.

Is it still kidnapping if the stolen party wants to be kidnapped?

Yes, he knows, because he’s thirty-four and she’s seventeen and there’s no good way to spin that.

He sets her down and it’s an awkward angle to bend, her in bare feet, her arms wrapped around his neck, but like that guillotine cut senses rather than tendons, he doesn’t mind at all.

(Just another thing, in the world A.E, that has changed. He used to prefer taller women simply because of his own height made that all so much easier.)

He crouches down to grab her heels, Ellie balancing a hand on his shoulder as he curves the little strap and latch around her ankle, her foot slipping in.

“Cute shoes,” he mutters, before standing (and thinks about fucking her in them and only them.)

“I should get back, shouldn’t I?” she says, looking up at him, like she’s looking for a reason _not to._

He hedges his bets. “Your mom staying in the city tonight?”

Ellie nods, chewing her lip a little.

“At Paul’s?”

Another nod.

“You think you can get back to your campus? Say you’ve got a lot of homework?”

Another nod, a little smile.

He touches her chin, tilts her head up higher, presses a kiss to her mouth, enjoying her smile breaking out across her face as he does.

“Alright then.”

 

 

 

 

 

                The first time he saw her, in those sticky, too-slow, too-breathless moments before _daughter_ had followed the words _girl to see you_ and _she says she’s—_ Nico had a split-second reaction, a split-second awareness of his heart in his chest, a clattering, weak moment he had no idea what to do with but to label it with want and tint it into _I’m gonna fuck that._

And then…

 _Daughter_.

And really, what was his reaction supposed to be other than a sick little hope that his bouncer, the girl, fucking _God,_ wouldn’t be that cruel and put her here in front of him and say, _sorry, you can’t touch her._

But really, he should have known better. Life is _always_ that cruel.

In the moment he’d gotten that test back, the one that said, without a doubt, without a question, this is your reality.

_Daughter._

He’s pretty sure he’s never hated anyone more than her in that moment. Just for _existing_.

And then he’d watched her. Watched her from pictures, from stolen files, from an unmarked car, windows tinted, sitting across from a little café and watching her walk, talk, _smile—_

And he’d never hated or wanted anything more in his fucking life.

It feels a little like that now, sitting in a tinted-windowed SUV, waiting for that same girl to appear.

He idles in the lot, watching the cars drive by, his lights off and car dark, waiting for—

A flash of headlights, a black town car pulling in. He cuts the light of his phone-screen, just in case and watches Loren step out—

And he thinks he should be angrier at her, thinks part of him is. Part of him is…livid, wrathful, vindictive enough to want to shake the woman’s hand with fingers that have buried inside their fucking daughter and smile like he hasn’t made her come and shake apart and cry out for her fucking _daddy._

But mostly, mostly he’s fucking indifferent. Doesn’t give a shit about her, just so long as he gets to keep Ellie.

Who slips out of the car, hugs her mother goodbye, waves a little into the dark of the car, at Paul, he guesses.

And that, he thinks, irritates him more than it _should._

 _This is my daughter, Ellie,_ Paul had said and it had taken every fucking ounce of his willpower not to throat punch Paul Hethridge just for _thinking_ _daughter_ and _Ellie_ in the same sentence.

Ellie’s _his._

But his girl is turning away from the town car, waving Paul and her mother off, pulling her phone from her clutch as the car starts turning away and out of the lot.

“Fucking _really_?” he mutters, watching it go. “For fuck’s sake, Loren. She’s seventeen and you leave her in a parking lot?”

The cars pulling out onto the street and Ellie’s toeing off her heels, a graceless, clumsy stumble that makes him smile, waiting to make sure the town car is far enough down the road…

She’s half-turned away, her shoes in hand, her phone screen lighting up her face as she frowns at it. His lips twitch, pulling out his phone as she walks towards her residence building, hitting the call button as he opens the car door and steps out into the quiet night.

He watches her pause, right at the base of the stairs that lead into her school, bringing her phone to her ear.

“You weren’t thinking about blowing me off, were you, sweetheart?” he says into the phone, leaning against the open car door and waiting for her to look back.

Ellie turns, surprise on her face, her smile quick and wonderful even in the dark.

“No, Daddy.”

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

 

 

 

            The loft is dark when they get in, just the moonlight spilling a pastel blur and blurring shadow into softer things.

It feels…so much like coming home, she isn’t sure what to do with the feeling.

Nico’s hand is in hers, hasn’t left it since he’d taken hold of it in the chill of the parking garage. He pulls her further into the loft and Ellie thinks to stop him because there are questions she means to ask, because she’s still a little annoyed with him.

Annoyed in ways she shouldn’t be, she knows, because he was trying to surprise her, but the reality of that boy saying _looked lonely…_ is truer than she wants to admit.

Because she was. She was lonely for _him._

And she kind of… kind of hates him for it.

But he’s pulling her further in and he’s saying, _wait—_ when she moves to take off her shoes.

Nico pulls her further into the loft, past the staircase and into the open space nearer the windows. He stands in front of her, his face shadowed, the room only lit by the glow of the city out of the windows.

He sets his fingers to her coat buttons, pops each one slowly, like there’s no rush at all, but really each one more spills her towards a low-burning little ache at the idea of him undressing her more. Completely. Stripping them both bare and—

His eyes meet hers and he smirks, like he knows exactly what she’s thinking.

But instead of kissing her, like she expects, Nico peels her coat off of her, dropping it over the arm of the couch they're standing beside and turns away.

She frowns, but watches the broad of his shoulders, biting her lip at the cut of him in his suit as he moves towards the sectioned area of his loft with that speakers and bar that she hadn’t really known what to fiddle with that first night he cooked her dinner.

But she watches him now, clicking something on the entertainment system, reaching for a remote as the unit comes on. He walks back towards her, doing up the middle button on his suit jacket before he holds out his hand and smiles, crooked and roguish.

“Can I interest you in a dance, Miss Evans?” he asks, his eyes warm, a little crinkle in the corner from the angle of his smile.

Ellie tries to hold it in, but her smile breaks out wide and too quick to contain. “Really?”

“I didn’t get the chance to ask earlier,” he says, hand out and waiting. Ellie looks at him, his hand, the other loose on the remote…

And puts her hand in his. “Absolutely, Mister Cordova.”

He grins at her, hits a button on the remote, tossing it onto the couch and pulling her into the open floorspace in front of the windows overlooking the balcony with its soft lights and faint blue glow from the pool still sitting uncovered. The city around them nothing more than hazy, yellow-tinted blurs of distant stars she can’t focus on.

The music starts, three notes, something soft like a chime or light chord—

And he pulls her closer, his hand wide at her back, resting just against the base of her spine. And she was right, of course, that despite the touch being similar to Paul’s hold, it’s infinitely different in every way.

A voice starts, a faded sort of sound to the music like it’s an old recording, which surprises her, though she isn’t sure what she was expecting.

Ellie curls her hand around his upper arm, their other hands linked in a soft hold, his hand at her back holding her warm and close to his body as they start to move and the voice sings on—

And then she catches the lyrics.

_Daddy’s home—_

_Your Daddy’s home to stay—_

She falters, just a little, listening, eyes flicking up to his and Nico grins, sharp, entertained, _cocky._

“You—” _oh my god,_ she laughs, pulling away from him, her cheeks growing warm.

He shushes her, laughing as he does, pulling her closer, leaning down to kiss her cheek, his hand tight on her lower back. “Stay. Stay.”

And she does, because they keep swaying slowly, and Ellie laughs when the chorus starts up again, pushing her head into his chest to hide her flush; knows he had to have planned all of this, everything, from the event, to the hotel room, to the song and the dance.

Nico moves her, guides her, takes them slowly in a lazy circle as the song rolls on with its slow, old-fashioned rhythm. It’s a strange thing to dance with him, and she isn’t sure why, somehow, in the quiet of the apartment, the music low and nothing more than moonlight filling the rest of the space… it’s intimate.

The glow of the city lights below them, around them, the world silent but for the music and their movements. Nothing but him and her and their bodies pressed together.

And when he dips her, Ellie laughs into it, feeling so full she could burst.

Nico’s smiling when he rights her, leaning down again to kiss her, his arm wrapping tighter around her middle and pulling her higher, holding her to his body, her feet skimming the ground before he sets her back down.

And still they move, slowly, easily, like nothing else matters at all.

 

When the song ends and rolls into another, Ellie doesn’t even notice.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Nico plays:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y8DICjr5jBI
> 
> And I wrote a little thing from Nico's POV about their first meeting for an anon request if anyone is interested in it, it's here:  
> https://sweetandsure.tumblr.com/post/181658226059/anon-request-first-metting


	18. Part Two, III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY!  
> I know this is so late, so so late. And it's not even a long chapter, but I really didn't want to make you guys wait any longer, so in lieu of the chapter I really wanted to put out I'm going to give you like, ten thousand words of pure smut and feelings....  
> like literally it's ten thousand words of smut.
> 
>  
> 
> Real life whooped me this month, so the story didn't get the attention it needed, not really. So, instead of rushing some plot I wanted/needed to focus on, I thought this would do for now. So, my bad about the lack of real development... but hopefully smut is a good replacement for now.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me and I hope you enjoy it anyway! Hopefully the smut suffices!

 

* * *

Part Two, III

* * *

 

 

 

 

It’s a quiet thing.

 

Nico’s hands work the buttons down the back of her dress open, slowly, smoothly, his fingertips warm, slightly rough, all greedy for her skin.

In heels, Ellie’s just tall enough that he can lean down, press his mouth to her shoulder, smooth a palm up her spine, slowly, smoothly as the music plays; lips soft, mouth warm, a soft thing.

She isn’t sure what it does to her insides, only that it does something.

But it’s not what she wants right now, doesn’t want his softness, as warm as it settles inside of her belly. She wants what she’s been thinking about since she slipped out of that hotel room, since she rode an elevator down five floors with wobbly knees and slippery-wet underwear.

Ellie stops moving, sets her hands to his chest and pushes him, nudges him towards the couch beside them.

He sinks into it, his eyebrows lifting, his eyes lit silver in the stream of moonlight and shifting city-light spilling in from the windows; an odd, faint blue glow stretching across the floors from the lights in the depths of the pool on the balcony.

It lights him up, tints him into something edged by fantasy, like all those secret little girl-dreams spun on slick fingers sunk inside her underwear. (All arched-backed and cotton-bitten, behind closed doors in childhood bedrooms.)

She wishes, just a little, that she had just a little more experience, a little more knowledge of what love and sex and relationships were supposed to be like. Wants to know if this is normal, if it’s not, if everyone feels like they’re moments from being sick just from fucking _feeling._

But, Nico looks up at her in the shadowed, blue tinted, silver moonlight and that feeling comes again: heart-thumping, stomach-twisting, pulse-pounding.

His hair an inky-smudge, eyes lit bright, but shadowed dark and fathomless all at once; curious, waiting, wanting. Collar loose, jacket gone, a glint of his watch, of cufflink, of leather shoes caught on the glare of moonlight spilling across dark wood floors.

Wants to tell him that he’s fucked in the head, delusional, _stupid_ to think she’s worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, a loft, a lifestyle _…_ wants to tell him he’s crazy, fucking crazy for doing what he did.

But she knows he won’t care.

(And this, she thinks, is an easy bit of knowledge, that for however much she thinks she doesn’t really _know_ him, his honesties are brutal, terrifying— but they are… they are _honest_.)

She wants to tell him something, anything, spill her secrets into his ear and ask him to make sense of them, because she doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing.

He’s her _dad._

And she thinks she might—

Knows she’s—

 _Too soon,_ she thinks, _too much_ , _too quick, don’t do it, don’t say it, don’t think it._

Ellie bites her bottom lip, scrapes her teeth over it, catches the flick of his eyes to her lips and wants him half as fucked up as she feels. Wants, just once, to see him lose a little more of that control.

Because even when he’s angry, or arguing, or asking her to _come on, come for me, baby—_

There’s something held back in him, she thinks, some edge of control, of restraint, of _not quite_.

Nico looks up at her, waiting—

And she steps between his legs, lifts her hands to peel the red-lace sleeves of her dress down her arms; her skin pebbling in the chill as she pulls it off, sinks her hands to her hips to push it down.

Absently, she wishes she wore a nicer bra than the nude thing she has on, but, if his eyes are as honest as his words are, Nico doesn’t mind; a twitch of his hand on his thigh, like he was going to reach out for her and stopped himself, like he’s trying to stay still. Just watching, waiting, wanting.

She feels skinny in the wake of his eyes as she pushes the dress over her hips and thighs, scrawny as she steps out of the puddle of red lace and soft fabric, weak-kneed and unsteady in the arch of her feet still in her heels; his gaze weighted and intense even in the shadows.

Ellie licks her lips, tells herself she’s done this before, that she’s pretty good at it, she thinks… if the boys she’s done it to were at all honest in their reactions. That just because he’s thirty-four and has probably had more than a few women on his dick doesn’t mean he won’t enjoy what she can do.

It might not be the best he’s ever had, but… but she’s definitely going to fucking _try._

Because it wasn’t _her mouth_ , and that’s what should matter, shouldn’t it?

Has been thinking about it since she left him. Thinking about his cock, about him not caring that all he did was get her off and send her on her way. That _this isn’t about me, sweetheart, it’s all for you._

That he planned nothing more than to steal her away long enough to eat her out and send her back to her mother with slippery thighs and pink cheeks.

It’s fucking perverse how much she liked it.

But now, now she’s spent however many hours thinking about his cock in his pants and wondering if he’d jerked off after she left, because he didn’t come back to the party for a long while after she did, and when he did—

Well, he wasn’t her _daddy._ Was nothing but a suit in the crowd, nothing but a man—

That had Ellie spending the rest of the night slick with thoughts of returning the favour, of getting her hands and mouth on _him_ for once, because he always, always made it about her.

Ellie sinks down to her knees, her hands bracing on the hard heat of his thighs, the floor cold but the area rug soft—

Nico leans forward, his hand on her wrist, the other reaching for the side of her neck. “You don’t have to—”

Ellie leans back, twisting her hand into the soft material of his trousers, her nails scraping lightly, his hand falling away from her neck.

“I want to,” she says quietly, looking up at him now, lashes feeling heavy with mascara, a little clumped from her tears earlier, his hand floating, frozen near her cheek. “Please.”

It’s more than one truth, really. She wants to taste him, to feel the weight of him on her tongue, the stretch of her lips around him, the iron-hard heat of his cock in her mouth… wants to control him for once, to be the one giving to get the power, the control, the ability to unmake a body into nothing but nerve endings and wants and tripping heartbeats.

To get her mouth on him the way he does to her, starving for it, desperate for it, like he _needs_ to eat her out almost as much as she wants to be eaten out and tipped into orgasm on his tongue.

But he looks so much bigger when she’s on her knees below him, has to edge forward a little more between his legs… then he spreads them wider, easing back in his seat, and there’s something about the spread of his legs, the muscles of his thighs tightening beneath her palms, the way he sits, some sort of cocky, confident slouch to his body that does something to her insides almost as much as the look on his face does.

Intense, wanting, dark… and something else she has no name for other than… hungry.

She lowers her eyes, spreads her fingers over thick legs and hard muscles, up the length of his thighs, ignoring the bulge, the heart-tripping, _thrilling_ bulge of his cock trapped in his pants, to touch the skin-warmed leather of his belt.

Runs her fingers along it, pulls his shirt out from his pants as slow as molasses; starting at the bottom, still ignoring the obvious, half nerve-wracking, half wonderful weight of his cock just beneath her wrists, slips each button on his starched white shirt open.

When she reaches his collar, she works the last button open, slips her hands inside his shirt and splays her fingers over his chest.

Feels the heat of his skin, the thump-bump of his heart beneath his chest, the tension, forced-stillness of his body…

And realises she’s never touched him before, not really, not like this, he’s always stopped her, always taken over, always caught her wrist or hands or mouth before she could really do anything to him at all.

She wonders if he does it on purpose, if he doesn’t enjoy being touched—

But she touches him now, with hungry fingertips, her heart in her throat and her pulse pounding in her limbs; with an ache inside of her that’s all for him and that cock, burning against her stomach as she leans forward to press a kiss to his chest, to scrape her teeth over the tension in his abdominals.

To catch the quiet, barely-there sound of him breathing, steady, but deeper than normal.

Nico’s waist is tense and thick, heavy with muscle; she remembers once, thinking he was built for a purpose, that he built himself for a purpose... as she slides her palms lower, over the ridges, the plains, the slope of him; breathes him in, that smell she loves lingering in his clothes, on his warm skin and beneath her lips now.

She isn’t sure what his purpose is, why he builds himself like this, why he keeps himself like this—

Maybe just for the fighting, like he said he still did, rarely, but does.

She slides her hands up, palm resting over his heart, her eyes flicking up to his; likes to feel the staccato beat of it beneath her palm, because for all the ways she can’t read him, his heart doesn’t lie.

She likes it, scrapes her teeth over his skin, kisses down his chest and wonders how the fuck she was supposed to not want him. How unfair to make him, to make him and give him to her the way it did.

Like it was a test of some kind. Pandora’s Box, waiting for her to give in.

But not to _touch._

Not to be hers.

She wants to laugh at that, because she’s already opened it.

Because he is, isn’t he?

If anything should be true, if anything could be true between them, it’s this: that if she’s his, if she’s—

_You’re mine, Ellie, aren’t you?_

_My pretty little girl._

If she’s _his,_ then Nico’s _hers._

But he’s a man built for a purpose she doesn’t quite understand. All sharp angles and soft, too hot, too hard muscles. A well-dressed, well-defined, well-built sort of man that she’s still easing the lid open on.

Carefully, eagerly, _desperately_.

With his shirt open and loose, his skin a half-shade darker than her own hands traveling over his stomach sliding lower, lower… Ellie touches his belt, curling her fingertips beneath it, a scrape of her nails against the hot skin beneath.

Nico’s hand twitches beside her, curls into the leather couch beneath them, goes white-knuckled and eases, slowly, like he had to focus on it.

She holds his eyes, the dark of his pupils circled by grey in the moonlight, focused on nothing but her. She can’t look long, can’t hold his gaze without feeling that heart-tripping, stomach-twisting ache of feeling too much.

Of wanting to say things she shouldn’t.

She runs her palms down his thighs, closer to his cock, back up again even closer to the swell of it beneath his pants; bites her lip and nudges a little closer.

In truth, she’s just buying herself a little more time to figure out exactly what she’s going to do; there’s a very real difference in his cock compared to what she’s seen and touched before.

A little bit of nerves in her belly for the reality of knowing his age and hers, knowing he’s probably had more blowjobs than she’s given. Knowing she may be good at it, but—

But that was on boys her own age, not men. _A man._

Ellie looks up at him, her cheeks warm, her body coiled tight, slips her fingers along the leather of his belt and works at the buckle. Nico watches her face, and whatever that look on his face is, it curls her body tighter, makes her cunt ache, a heat building inside of her that’s all for him.

She works his belt loose, a tremble in her fingers that’s more eagerness than nerves; wants to turn that look into something just as desperate as she is. Pulls his belt out from his pants, a low winding hiss of leather against fabric, the clatter of the buckle as she lets it fall to the floor beside her, already bringing her hands back to the front of his pants.

Thumbs the button of his pants as she drops her head down and mouths along the bulge of his cock beneath the strain of his zipper. Feels the bulk, the heat, the iron burn of it beneath the fabric—

Feels it twitch, swell a little more and she hides a smile, a little thrill inside of her, by nosing along the bulk of his trapped cock.

There’s a noise above her, low and more air than voice, and then a hand in her hair, gripping her bun, a hand on her cheek, tilting her head up and back and Nico’s mouth is on hers, pulling her higher on her knees till she’s bent with it, arched and held still in his grip.

He kisses her, hard, rough, his hand nearly too tight twisting in her hair; Ellie palms his cock through the fabric, rubs her palm over the heat and hardness, works his zipper down as he kisses her.

Nico lets her go as suddenly as he grabbed her, a final, hard press of his lips and he sinks back against the couch, drags a hand through his hair and says nothing, just fucking looks at her like he’s trying to devour her by sight alone.

But it’s her turn, she thinks. It’s her turn to undo him just a little with her mouth.

His cock is hot beneath her knuckles, but she curls her fingers beneath the band of his boxer briefs and pulls them down slowly, leaning forward to press her lips to the tense ‘v’ of his lower abdominals, the hot skin just above the base of his cock, the dark trail of hair that leads to the thick of him.

She can feel his pulse in his hip, trails her mouth towards the base of his cock, kisses the first thick inch of it she sees—

And Nico’s hand tightens on the couch, a squeak of leather and skin; Ellie breathes out, licks her lips, presses the soft heat of them against him, pulling his underwear lower as she does.

She can feel him beneath her chin, can feel the heat, iron covered silk weight of his cock, turns her mouth, eager to get more of it, presses her lips against the base, trailing them down to get her hand into his pants, to curl her fist around the thick of his cock, eyes flicking up to his as she takes hold of him.

Nico watches her, his chest shifting, his eyes lidded, his jaw tight…

Ellie curls her hand around him tighter, or tries to because her fingers don’t quite close around him.

Some part of her brain feels him in her palm and wonders if anyone has ever seen his cock and not thought _oh my god, no—_ but then, that makes her think that other women have done this to him—

If _Irina_ did this to him. (After that birthday party, if she had gone to her knees to pull him into bed, or if he’d gone willingly… if he really had Ellie on his mind at all, torn between wanting her and not being able to stand the thought of it.)

The thought drops, a frozen bit of lead in her stomach; she shoves it away, eyes flicking up to his, watching him watch her.

Nico leans just a little sideways against the arm of the couch, his elbow digging into it, his hand near his face, rubbing over his jaw, his mouth before stopping and falling back to the armrest of the couch.

She has no idea what the look is, barely restrained maybe, like he’s holding himself still.

Ellie’s pretty fucking sure she doesn’t want him to stay still.

Wants the opposite really; wants him to lose himself, hesitation, _restraint_ — fuck her mouth, maybe, grip her hair and roll his hips up to push himself deeper the way he eats her out, letting her grind and roll against his face.

She grips him harder, enjoys the throb, pulse, burn of his cock in her palm; leans forward to drag the flat of her tongue from base to tip in a long, wet line.

His thigh ticks, just slightly inward.

 _That’s_ what she wants, she thinks, more of that.

She might not be the first, might never be the only, but—

But maybe she can blow his mind just a _little._

 _Did you blow Daddy’s mind?_ Mya had asked. And no, Ellie thinks, but she wants to.

Ellie shifts higher on her knees, brings her mouth to the thick head and gathers spit in her mouth, saliva slicking along her tongue—

She lets it drool out, pursing her lips and letting her saliva slip out of her mouth over the head of his cock, pushing out as much as she can until it slips down the side, shining and dripping down the width of him, hitting her fingers.

There’s a bitten off noise from his chest, his thigh twitches and Ellie feels a slick thrill, a burning throb inside of herself at that sound.

She flicks her eyes up, under her lashes to steal a glance at him; never been good at keeping eye contact, like she’s read about  doing. But here, she finds she wants to—

Wants to watch his reaction, wants to _see him…_ she flattens her tongue, drags it over the wide head, more slickness on her tongue as she grips his cock and drags her fist up; thinks about his own hand moving along his cock, the grip, stroke, twist of his wrist as he jerked off onto her skin.

It gives her a little bolt of a thrill at the memory, his eyes greedy on her skin, the way his cock looked, angry and red and shiny in his fist…

Ellie keeps one hand steady at the base of his cock to hold it still as her other hand moves, her fist curving tighter as it slips through the spit gleaming in the light.

Can’t help but watch it, his cock thick and slick and wet beneath the path of her hand; turns her wrist near the top, twists it just as her thumb touches her tongue and fists it back down, following the same path twice, feeling the way his thighs clench, the way his cock throbs in her hand as she moves.

Her lips slip lower, over one of the heavy veins on the underside, her fist tilting his cock up and then back down, lips brushing over him.

From the corner of her eyes she sees his fingers tighten, ease, tighten again.

She shifts, her knees a little sore on the bunch of her dress on floor; feels his fingers brush her neck, like before when he pulled her up for that bruising kiss—

Ellie knocks his hand away, glaring up at him, tightening her fist around him.

Nico huffs a breath, a slow, incredulous sound; his eyes searching her face.

She gets to call the shots this time, not him, she thinks, and slicks her tongue to push another little bit of spit out of her mouth, lets it drip down over the head of his cock.

Nico’s jaw ticks, and she doesn’t know what to think of him being so quiet, because he’s always so vocal when he’s touching her. But he eases back, his hand falling away from her cheek, lifting both hands as his head tilts back against the couch back, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes and blowing out another breathy grunt, his neck thick, Adam’s apple shifting.

 _Yeah,_ she thinks, _quiet Nico is weird._

Determined to get more noise out of him, Ellie gathers spit on her tongue, jaw moving, and spit gathering in her mouth because he’s thick and long and a messy blow job is a good blow job, isn’t it?

She thinks so.

She leans a little higher over him again, bringing his head right under her lips and lets it leak out over him as she drags her fists up to meet the leak of it, to spread it over him, to slick the grip of her hand as she takes that thick head into her mouth.

Chases the salty-sweet tang of his precum along the length of her tongue, enjoys the stretch of her lips, the heavy weight on her tongue—

Knows there’s no fucking way she’s getting all of him in her mouth and _sucks_.

His hips twitch, a stutter of his breathing, her ears strained for every noise as she strokes her fist along the length of him, making up for what she can’t fit in her mouth. Lets the curl of her fist bump into her lips, a twist of her wrist before dragging it back down—

Again and again, her tongue stroking along the underside of his cock in her mouth, finding more of that salty-sweet leak as she strokes him, sucks him, licks up the hot, iron-silky feel of his cock in her mouth.

His thigh tenses, knee twitching against her side and his breathing deepens, shallows out, Ellie flicks her eyes to his, pulls her mouth off and licks, a long straight wet stroke over the underside of his cock, before ducking back down, dragging it into her mouth again, sucking hard and laving over his head.

His hips twitch again, a bitten back grunt rumbles out of his chest.

Her mouth pops off him, sucking in a breath before sliding her mouth wetly all the way down the side of him, her tongue spit-slicked, sucking as she goes. She grips his cock, tilts it back towards his stomach as she reaches the base of him, strips her tongue flat and wide up the underside, all the way back to his head, flicks her eyes up to his face and then stuffs it back into her mouth.

Nico curses, something torn and rough and too rolling for her to catch anything more than the pitching roll of it out of his chest.

Pushes her mouth further down, sucking harder, letting her eyes water, shifting higher, dropping her head lower and another inch slides into her mouth. It’s not enough, she thinks, but she can’t imagine being able to take much more. Lips stretched, mouth wide, her fist shifts up and back down faster, a rough twist on every spit-slippery path as she sucks and licks and tries to swallow more of him.

Nico’s hips twitch up again, his hand white-knuckled on the couch like it’s the only thing keeping him still.

Restraining him.

Which, she really doesn’t want.

Ellie pops off, sucks in a breath and lets the heat of his cockhead burn against the swollen, friction-hot red of her lips, meeting his eyes, the shift of his chest as he breathes, steady but deep.

Pushes her tongue out flat, her hand pumping him, blinking up at him… before swallowing him back down and letting his head bump the back of her throat.

But it’s not quite right she thinks, not quite what she wants—

Reaches for his hand and brings it up to the hair, enjoys the stutter of his breathing as his fingers sink into the strands, scrape her scalp, sit heavy against her head.

It makes her cunt throb, makes her needy with a want to sink her fingers into her underwear and rub herself just a little to ease the ache.

She squirms a little and Nico’s hand tightens in her hair, knotting in and it makes her achy and wanting to push him further and further into the same neediness she feels—

Focuses on keeping his cock slick, her fist slippery, stroking him steady and heavy and rhythmically as his fingers knot tighter, his hips twitch, thighs tighten and ease like it’s all he can do to stay still.

She pulls off with a wet pop, her lips swollen and red from friction and the glide of his cock over them. She breathes, rough and wet, her lips brushing his cock, slick, a connecting string of saliva from her lips to his cock.

“Fuck,” he curses, his head dropping back, his hips twitching up, hand heavy, cupping the back of her head as he straightens, looks back down at her and grunts as she licks, sucks and works her mouth back around the thick of him to close her mouth around his cock.

Bobs her head; his fingers twisting in, tugging at her scalp, sending electricity through her limbs and straight down to her cunt, leaking and slick in her underwear, her hips shifting, little twitching rolls searching for friction. With a whine in her throat, Ellie tries to press his cock further into her mouth, lets her eyes water as it hits the back of her throat, his hips twitching up, his hand heavy—

Swallows down the taste of him, chases more of it, her tongue stroking flatly along the underside, the heat and width of him in her mouth is fucking perfectly uncomfortable.

Pulls off for a breath, blinking through the water in her eyes, fisting his cock, her lips tingling, hot against the head of his cock, glances up at him and—

He grunts, rough and strained, his hand tightening in her hair again, a directing weight that makes her grin and gloat and choke him back down.

“Christ,” Nico chokes, his thighs tense, his hips shifting up to chase the heat of her mouth, to sink deeper, to push against the back of her throat, even though there’s no way he can go any deeper, she wants him to. Wants to swallow him, let him fuck her throat—

Doesn’t even know if that’s really something possible, with how full her mouth is.

But fuck if she doesn’t want to try.

Ellie reaches up, presses her wet hand over his on the back of her head, pushing down before gripping back onto his cock, stroking him faster, her thumb stroking heavier along the underside on every upward tug.

Nico’s hand tightens, more a spasm then a grip on, his stomach tensing, chest rumbling with a torn noise—

And then his hand is hot on the side of her face, his thumb digging into her jaw, even as his hips snap up, cock hitting the back of her throat harder—

And he’s yanking her head back, his hand spread wide on the side of her face, his eyes dark and he looks—

Feral.

Ellie sucks in air, her lips hot and swollen, her chin wet and cold every time she sucks in a breath.

Nico says nothing, just stares at her, his chest shifting as he breathes, hot and heavy and strained.

“My turn,” he growls, and before Ellie can blink, Nico’s hands are under her armpits, hauling her up in a rough tug; a burst of strength that shocks the breath out of her as he drags her high and into his lap.

Nico pins her to his chest with one arm around her waist, his arm heavy and immovable and—

Two of his fingers fuck into her, slipping under the band of her underwear and shoving up inside of her in a rough plunge; twisting, curling, dragging a raw, keening sound from her throat.

 _Fucking soaked—_ he growls into her neck, his breath hot and chest rolling with the words.

Nico’s fingers curl, intent and rough and direct on those nerves inside of her and Ellie’s hips roll even as she sags forward and nearly over his shoulder, body curling against him, fingers knotting into his hair, sucking in a breath full of leather couch and cold air. Squirms in his lap, hips rolling, clit rubbing against his stomach, slicked through soaking wet satin and grinding against him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

                “Fucking desperate little thing,” Nico groans into shoulder, turns his head into her neck, scrapes his teeth over her pulse, sucks a mark and curses into her skin when she clenches on his fingers, her voice pitching higher, needy, reedy.

All for him.

Ellie grips the shoulder of his shirt, pushing herself back and down and working herself on his fingers, but with her knees braced around his hips and her feet tucked over his thighs, she feels like such a little thing in his lap… and it sits inside of him, twists him as much as it thrills him. Who she is and what she is—

He eases  the grip of his arm from around her waist, snaps the hooks on her bra to tear it off her shoulder, mouth following, before tilting her back and peeling it off of her entirely.

Ellie’s flushed and open-mouthed, sucks in a breath when his mouth closes around her nipple, when he nips and bites and licks the pebbled, pink peak of it.

Splays a hand over her hip to hold her as he curls a third finger in, listens to her climbing, desperate noises—

So fucking sweet and tight and hot and _his—_

So fucking perfect as his fingers fuck into her that he thinks he’d be fucking happy to never fuck again if he could feel this, see this, every day.

Just her on his fingers, wet and hot and clenching onto them.

Just watching her:

Trembling, hips rolling with his hand, her cunt squelching in his palm; lost to her body and pleasure as her head drops back, hair a mess of tangles spilling out of the bun it was in as he holds her straighter, fingers spread wide along the back of her hip, thumb bruising against the bone.

She was made for this, built for his body and his fingers, made to fit him, made _from_ him—

A sick thought, but a true one.

He slips his thumb beneath the front of her underwear, tugging it over more, enough to watch the shine of her leaking over his fingers, into his palm… her cunt all pink and pretty, lips spreading against his palm every time she rolls into it.

Twists his hand enough to get his thumb against her clit, and her body spasms, stomach tensing, voice breaking with an _ohGod—_

He does it again, a heavy pressure and a slow pass and his girl shudders, cries out, some reedy, twisted thing that sounds like a broken plea, her hand flying to his forearm, nails scraping, desperate, holding on.

Leaning forward to catch her nipple, to kiss his way across her chest, to mark her up with his mouth. Her other hand knots into his hair, back arching, riding his palm. Keeps his thumb steady, rubbing over the slippery nub of her clit, his fingers curling inside of her, her cunt clenching around them. Ellie’s arm winds over his shoulder, fingers scraping his scalp, her body tense and straining, and liquid loose all at once.

He kisses up her chest, sucks at her pulse, up her neck, his mouth to her ear as he works her closer, as she gets louder, _wetter—_

And she comes, shuddering, convulsing, hips twitching and twisting on his fingers as he works her through it. A hot, leaking wetness that makes his cock, aching and painful and getting wet just from her thighs, twitch and throb in anticipation.

Ellie’s hand scratches his forearm, a whining noise in her chest, his thumb pressing against her clit as his fingers slow, stretching out inside of her, feeling every clench, every spasm and wanting more of it even as she sags into him, her body trembling, her hand tight in the hair at the back of his head.

 _Upstairs,_ he thinks, _bed, condom, fuck her—_

He tells himself this, even as he grabs his cock with his wet hand.

_Upstairs, bed, condom, sink inside of her—_

He drags the fat head over the slippery smooth skin of her cunt, and Ellie twitches, a long noise in her throat that’s all sorts of needy; a sound that makes his cock throb, his body ache with a need to bury himself inside of her.

But he grips his cock harder, fingers slippery from her as he holds himself steady, lines himself up—

As Ellie rolls her hips, a hitching noise in his ear as his cock rubs against her, as his head slicks through all her release, as she squirms, pressing down trying to sink him inside of her.

He lets her roll onto him, clenches his jaw at her sharp inhale, the sucked in breath as his head pushes up inside of her, as her body tenses at the intrusion.

And still, she pushes down.

Nico watches over her shoulder, watches the roll of her hips, the stretch of her underwear, twisted and digging into her skin; gathers the fabric on her hip in his fingers to pull it over a little more, watching the shine, the wetter fabric as it pulls up from between her ass cheeks.

She sinks down more and it tears a noise out of both of them. He slips his hand higher along his cock to feel the stretch of her cunt around him, the way she soaks him every time she moves, every time he sinks a little deeper, opening her up to fucking fill her up.

And he can’t help but hate the idea of doing this with a condom, as much as he knows he _should_ be using them. As much as he knows he needs to.

Sinking inside of her without one is the sweetest bit of torture he’s ever known; to feel her, wet and slick and tight and knowing there’s nothing at all between them. That every spasm of her cunt, every gripping clench, every slow dripping leak of her arousal over him, is…

It’s _his_ and she’s _his_ and he hates the fucking idea that he can’t keep doing it.

That he is literally torturing himself by fucking her now without one. Knows it would be better to not know how this feels—

It feels fucking perfect.

_Fucking perfect for me, Ellie._

Ellie moans in his ear, a drawn out needy sound as she pushes down more, cunt stretching at his fingertips and he can’t stop the twitch of his hips, cock pushing deeper, making her cry out in his ear as her arm tightens around his neck.

He does it again, just to hear it again, like the noises he dragged out of her that first morning in his bed, each more broken and desperate than the last, each making _him_ more desperate and broken than the last.

Again and again, Ellie pushing back as much as he’s rolling up to meet her, to sink deeper and deeper inside of her, quicker and harder and louder—

Until she pushes a hand against his shoulder, leaning back, sitting straighter, thighs trembling against his, her cheeks red, face flushed, nipples pink and hard, her stomach tense every time her hips shift.

He watches her, his hand iron-tight on her hip, fingers stretching back and bruising into her ass cheek, underwear knotted and twisted beneath his grip.

She looks down between them, gripping onto his forearm, her lips parted and swollen from her mouth on his cock; looking depraved and beautiful; a little perversion come to life.

His sick little fantasy come to life. (Not just choking on steam and shame, not just a pretty perversion beneath his eyelids, stuck in every desperate stroke of his hand on his cock, thinking about whip cream and school skirts and just how fucking sweet she’d taste.)

Ellie reaches down, and he’s sure that noise is something rolling out of his chest, half curse, half growl, half breaking restraint as her fingers slip over her cunt, over his thumb still hard on her clit. Her fingers slick when they touch his cock, feeling the same thing he was, the stretch, the heat, the fucking soaking mess of her.

Can’t stop himself from pushing a little deeper, hips rolling up, cock breaking her open more, making her cry out. Her hand flying to her mouth, and it fucking _bothers_ him—

Nico grabs her wrist, pulls it away from her mouth, wants to tell her that he wants to hear her, hates when she tries to be quiet, that she doesn’t ever have to be fucking quiet for him.

That he wants to hear everything, every hitch, every breath, every broken cry and moan and sobbing little plea.

But the angle of their bodies change as he reaches for her wrist. With his hand gone from between them, Ellie sinks down the rest of the way—

Or nearly, _nearly_ , with her feel tucked over his thighs.

She tenses, condenses against him, makes some broken, strained, _perfect_ noise against his cheek, and Nico grabs at her hip with one hand, sitting straighter, pulls her into his body; her arms wrapping around his shoulders, his cock rubbing against that bundle of nerves inside of her as she presses against him, her hips still rolling, her clit grinding against his thumb, even as her face twists, eyes clenched, adjusting to him.

He presses his lips to the corner of hers, groans out, _sorry, I’m sorry—_

Holds her still, or tries to, Ellie keeps squirming, his cock rubbing against those nerves inside of her and she pants against his mouth, clinging onto him—

Her nails sunk into the back of his neck, little points of pain he focuses on so he doesn’t come like he feels seconds away from doing at the clenching tight heat of her around him.

And then she kisses him, turns her mouth to meet his and it’s hot and hungry as she presses her chest up against his, pulling herself closer as she rolls her hips over him.

He grunts into her mouth, head tilting to kiss her deeper, hands running over her sides, over the stretch of her body, the bump of her ribs, the thump of her heart above her ribcage… back down, over her shifting back, over the bunching fabric of twisted underwear on her hips, over the perfect little swells of her ass cheeks on each roll of her body into his.

He grips them, fill his palms, urging her roll and swallows the noises that slip out of her.

And then the rolls turn into inching little rises, her thighs tense as she lifts up, sinks back down, a little more each time.

Ellie’s hands slide to his neck, her thumbs digging into his jaw, their lips brushing, their eyes locked… and he has no fucking idea what’s inside of his chest other than it fucking _hurts._

His breath comes as harsh and quick as hers, his fingers white-tipped and digging into her ass cheeks, helping her roll up and then back down on his cock.

That slick, squelch of how wet she is pushes him closer and closer and it’s not even because of how hot and tight she is, it’s just the fucking noise, _her noises_ — the desperate hitch of her breath, the red of her lips, the little smudge of mascara beneath her eyes…

Every little noise that spills out of her and into his mouth.

She kisses him, or tries, but it’s more like sharing air, slick lipped and hot mouthed; her hands cupping his face now, holding his face to hers, his lips to hers, his breath to hers.

He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s feeling. Only that he doesn’t want it to stop. Not even as every rise and plummet they urge each other into pushes them closer and closer towards the edge.

It’s hot, he thinks, can feel the sweat along his spine, the heat inside of him growing; too hot, too intense, feels like they’re pressed too close together for even air to get through.

She rises up and sinks down and the wet noise of her cunt on his cock gets louder, her breath gets faster, every inhale sharper, pitching, hitching higher—

She’s close, he knows, can feel in the clench of her around him, can feel her body tensing, her thighs failing, her hips starting to roll even as she tries to keep lifting and sinking and lifting—

It’s uncoordinated and messy and he can’t stop it, can’t tear himself away from her eyes, can’t twist to push her onto the couch and take over, can’t do anything but meet her body in little shifts of his hips, his lower stomach slick with her wetness, his underwear rubbing oddly against the base of his cock, slicked from her.

There are words in his mouth, things he’d tell her if he could find the air to say them, how tight she is, how wet she is, how good she feels around him—

But he can’t do anything but urge her up and back down, can’t do anything but watch her face, feeling too hot and ready to fly apart at any second.

And then Ellie fucking _smiles_ — a flicker of it on her mouth, a sharper exhale, inhale as her lips twitch up, and he can’t catch it, can’t reason it, feels like he’s going to be sick with it even as his own twitch, as he huffs out a rush of strained air like a laugh and Ellie smiles, sharp and quick—

Rocks higher and sinks back down and the smile falls away as she pulls in a breath, her whole body tensing even as her hips keep rolling, cunt clenching, spasming, squelching on his cock.

He groans against her mouth, her cunt pulling him into an orgasm that travels through his body like a slow spilling liquid heat.

It’s the quietest fucking orgasm he’s ever given her, but there’s something about her hands on his face, about her breath in his mouth, about how wrapped up in each other they are that it doesn’t even fucking matter.

His cock pulses inside of her, every throb of it hotter, slicker, his cum filling her in slowing surges, his hips twitching, trying to grind against her.

Ellie’s eyes close, her forehead sliding against his, as damp as his is, her hands twitching on his jaw, fingers slipping along his neck, scratching lightly.

They breathe, chests bumping, hearts thumping in the same too-quick beat, his cock gives another slow pulse and Ellie’s breath catches, her hips rolling smoothly.

Eventually, he tilts his head, presses his lips to hers and kisses her, slow and honey sweet.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

                He doesn’t bother pulling out.

She isn’t sure how long they sit there, only that it’s long enough for their hearts to slow, for their breath to fall more evenly, for their kisses to turn languid.

It’s fucking strange feeling him growing hard inside of her, but he does. His cock twitches, thickens, and it drags a little sound from her chest for the feel of it; the slow stretch.

She rolls her hips, wanting more of it, but Nico stands, his arm curving beneath her ass to hold her higher in his arms, toeing off his shoes, a crooked smile on his mouth when she whines, cunt slippery and rubbing against his stomach.

He carries her upstairs, feet quiet on the stairs, his bedroom chilled, dark and near silent; only moonlight and small distant city lights across from the expanse of Central Park.

Nico stands at the edge of the bed, leaning forward to lay her back against it, mouth on hers, their lips slippery and warm. He stays above her, just like that for long enough she thinks he’s going to fuck her like this, his hips shifting forward in little rolls as Ellie squirms beneath him, her heels digging into his lower back.

But he leans back, his cock slipping out of her and Ellie whines for the loss of it, but his fingers are curling into the mess of her tangled underwear and peeling it off her. It’s wet, soaked through, but she can’t find time to feel embarrassed about it as he grabs her ankle, slipping off her heel and letting it thud to the floor.

After he pulls off the other, Ellie sucks in a breath when he knocks her thighs wide, his eyes sinking between her legs; her toes curling into the cold duvet as her cheeks warm.

He doesn’t touch her, but his eyes are heavy, and Ellie can feel the wet leak of his cum, a different feeling than her own, an odd thick heat less slippery than her own.

Nico pulls off his shirt, his eyes tearing away from watching the seep of his cum and dragging it up her body; cock growing heavier, thicker, still shining from being inside of her.

He steps back to shuck his pants, his eyes sinking back between her legs before he’s climbing back over her, his body warm and big and heavy, making her insides clench, stomach twisting as she blinks up at him when he braces on his forearms, keeping most of his weight off her.

Nico looks towards the bathroom and she isn’t sure why, turns her head to follow the path of his eyes but there’s nothing there; he stares hard at nothing for long enough that she’s opening her mouth to ask him what—

But he turns back to face her, his eyes searching hers, moving over her face. He’s all dark and shadowed, lit in angles by the moonlight stretching over them as one of his hand comes up to cup her cheek; thumb dragging over her lips, a weird feeling on his skin that she realises is the half-dried slickness of herself from his thumb on her clit.

He rubs the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip, over the top, back down to drag the swollen heat of her bottom lip down a little, the tip pressing in, just a little.

“You got me all fucked up, you know that?”

There’s a bubble of something in her chest, something sharp and painful and it feels strangely like she might cry, like that aching heat right before tears.

But he’s leaning down and kissing her, his thumb between them, a soft press of his mouth before his hand falls away and he’s reaching down between them—

 

And then he takes her apart all over again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                Ellie wakes, weighed down and boneless, breathing in cotton and sleep-warm air; blinks into the early light of morning, a crawling lazy blue tint.

She smiles into her pillow as she realises the weight on her is Nico pressed up against her, his arm heavy over her stomach, holding her against his front despite how curled up she is. His head on her pillow, his arm beneath it, reaching out towards the edge of the bed. She can feel him breathing, his chest shifting against her spine, his heartbeat slow and steady against the back of her shoulder.

He’s pressed so close she can feel the half-hard heat of his cock just beneath her ass, one of his legs curved up behind her, like he chased her across the bed the smaller she curled up.

Turning her face into her pillow, she grins wider, enjoying the skin on skin contact, the way they’re pressed so close they’re melting together, blurring at the edges; where one limb weighs into another weighs into skin on skin on heartbeats.

Ellie watches his hand, wishing she could roll over, but his arm is heavy and the way he’s curved around her is like his body is merging into hers and she doubts she can really move him at all, not without waking him.

But his cock beneath her is teasing, and the sight of his fingers is doing something to her insides, thinking about them shiny, sticky, all slick with her wetness… thinking about each long, thick finger twisting inside of her—

Her hips twitch, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she feels that little, seeping ache grow between her thighs, that throbbing swell of need…

Nico’s chest shifts, expands, weighs her down a little more, a sound caught somewhere inside of it, rumbling against her spine.

Ellie uncurls, just a little, his cock bumping the back of her thighs, along the curve of her ass, almost against the seam of her.

His hand, the arm beneath her pillow tenses, eases… Ellie squirms, just a little, watching it. But it’s the arm around her stomach that moves as Nico does. Tugs her closer, somehow, though there’s no real space between them, his hand moving to press against her stomach, spreading wide, caressing up it, towards her ribs, over her side, along the curve of her hip and cupping the swell of her ass. His palm hot and wide, fingers brushing along the seam of her, making her breath catch, her spine shift, her hips pressing back, trying to sink down more as his hand spreads along her thigh and runs down to her knee, over her calf, her ankle…

Back up, his hand curving again and Ellie breathes out a little breath as he gets closer to the back of her thighs, his fingers long, a little rough—

Brushes along her sex, just a little bit heavier.

Nico makes a noise in his throat, chest, both maybe; it’s rough and heavy and his body weighs her down more as he presses closer, as his mouth touches the back of her neck all hot and soft and edged, just a little, with his teeth.

Ellie pushes back, trying to push back against him, to roll over, to climb on top maybe, like last time—

But Nico’s fingers stroke her again, heavier, just slipping between her lips like he’s checking—

She already knows she’s wet.

Ellie turns her head into her pillow, breathing out as he strokes her, too lightly, too slow, too teasing as Nico presses his mouth to her skin, hot and damp; his breathing a little heavier as his hand cups her thigh, curving around the inside, his hips shifting closer, his voice rough and rolling into her.

_Stretch out a little._

Ellie does, her cheeks hot, pushing her bottom leg straighter as Nico’s hand curves around her thigh, grips it and pulls it up and back to hook over his hip.

She can’t possibly stay still, squirms up and back, trying to roll her hips into his lap, his cock so _close—_

Nico’s mouth brushes the top of her spine, his hand cupping her hip, caressing up her side, pressing flat against the tense of her stomach like he’s feeling her body move.

His cock is right there, burning against the back of her thigh, thick and hard and heavy—

And then his hand slides down her stomach, his fingers brushing over her mound, his fingers soft and warm as they sink between her legs; he strokes over her, a lazy, full of just-feeling stroke, like he’s petting her, taking her in…

Until he drags his fingers back up, slick with the leak of her arousal, the achy throb beating in her cunt, and strokes them around her clit, and then over it, rubbing it—

Ellie hitches a breath, body tensing and going liquid-loose as he rubs her, strokes down over her to get them wetter, back up to her clit—

She presses back into him, gasping, a please on her tongue so close to slipping loose—

But Nico’s hand sinks again, lower, reaching between her legs, and when the hot, fat head of his cock brushes her entrance and slips over it… Ellie moans, squirms down, wiggling into him for more.

His teeth scrape the back of her neck, breathing warm and heavy on her skin as he rubs his cock over the wet mess of her spread open sex, up over her clit, her mound and back down, once, twice…

And then it’s pressing, all thick and hard against her, slippery from rubbing against her, gettting wetter as his hips roll up and it sinks inside of her.

Ellie sucks in a breath, her hand flying back and gripping into the hair at the back of his head, a groan in Nico’s chest that rolls through her, sinks inside of her the way his cock does.

His mouth hot on her skin as his fingers slip off his cock to rub her clit, his hips shifting in steady little thrusts up as his cock sinks deeper and deeper inside of her in slow rocking pulses.

Nico fills her up slowly, steadily, his breathing rough and hot against her skin, his stomach tense and shifting along her back, his hand rubbing her steadily until the leg Ellie has hooked over his hip tries to close, her body lost between rolling into his fingers, down onto his cock and back into his body and Nico grips it, holds it in place, his fingers wet on her skin.

He sinks in, as deep as the angle will let him, not as deep as he can, she knows, but there’s something about feeling his hips push into the curve of her ass on every rocking shift, about the tense of his muscles, about the amount of skin they have pressed together…

It’s slow and too hot and Ellie’s fingers twist in his hair, tugging him closer still, even as her face, body, core burns on every slow rolling, lazy push of his cock inside of her. It grows and builds and burns hotter, brighter—

All slick and sweaty and slow.

She’s breathless and unraveling, melting maybe, melting into him on every thick slide of his cock. Wishing she could see it instead of just feeling it—

And like he can read her mind, the arm Nico has beneath the pillow curves until it’s against her shoulders, holding her into the curve of his arm, her head rolling onto his shoulders, his hips pulsing up a little faster, his cock throbbing and thick inside of her. His hand coming off her thigh only long enough to tug the duvet, to twist it off them before he grips back onto her thigh, holding her open.

Ellie looks down, watches the slick slide of his cock, the shine of it stretching her, sinking inside of the wet-pink of her cunt, his hips pushing against her ass, and the slow glide of his cock slipping out only to rock into her again all shiny and thick.

Nico groans against her shoulder, and she doesn’t have to guess, knows he’s watching like she is as he pulls her a little closer, his arm beneath her curving, spreading wide-fingered and flat palmed over her chest, thumb stroking over her nipple as he holds her against him.

She’s panting, toes curling, thigh trembling beneath his hand, ass pushing back against his lap, the build of her orgasm like a sticky-sweet treat melting in her mouth.

And then there’s a noise, a chime, a—

Ringtone.

It breaks through the haze of sugar-sweet melting, a too-slow realization that it’s her phone on the side table, vibrating, lit up—

Nico’s head lifts, but his pace doesn’t change, and Ellie blinks, looking at it and there’s a name on the screen, and it’s the last one she wants to see.

_Mom._

Ellie groans, her fingers knotting tighter into his hair, her arm shaking as he presses his mouth to her neck, a hot slick little kiss chased by his teeth.

But still, he keeps rocking into her.

 _Do you wanna get that?_ He rumbles into her neck.

Ellie shakes her head, pushing her ass back against him on every roll of his hips into her; breathless, voiceless, so fucking _close—_

_Let her know you’re safe._

Ellie’s toes curl, her thigh trembling, her nails scratching his scalp. Can’t help but listen.  Can’t help but soak in, melt into, seep into every rough, rolling word from his chest.

_Tell her you’re with your daddy._

_Jesus,_ she thinks, whines out some torn, desperate noise as Nico nips her pulse, his hand heavy on her breast, her heart thudding beneath it. His, thudding against her shoulder.

_What a good girl you are for him._

Ellie groans and the phone rings, and still, he rocks into her, slicker, cock burning and somehow hard and soft all at once every time it stretches her, fills her.

The phone chimes again and Ellie groans, hating the sound of it.

_How much you like your daddy filling you up…_

_Oh God,_ she hitches, chest jerking beneath his palm. So close it’s nearly painful, sitting right there between her hips, leaking out of her, slicking every thrust of him inside of her.

 _Don’t you, baby?_ he hushes, as languid and smooth as every slow stretch of his cock inside of her…

_Filling her._

Ellie nods, all quick and jerky, tugging at his hair, her arm shaking as his breath puffs against the back of her neck. Their bodies slick with sweat, too hot, too close together.

 _D-daddy,_ Ellie cries, all reedy and strained and so close to her orgasm she’s shaking with it.

_That’s it, baby, come on._

There’s a chime, a text message notification—

But Ellie’s melting apart at her edges, her voice twisting out of her as his cock fucks her through it, pushes her into some electric-tipped liquid mess of shaking limbs and clenching muscles and twisting, broken cries.

Feels Nico’s arm tighten around her, his hand slipping from her thigh to her hip, holding her still as he pushes up, working his cock into the clenching, spasming grip of her cunt—

His voice a growl and vibration along her spine, mouth hot on the soft of her shoulder, his arm holding her tight to him as he shoves up inside of her, cum spilling as his cock pulses, throbs…

Fucking _fills_ her _—_

His hand on her hip, pinning her down and holding her still, his hips tight against her ass, little barely noticeable twitches up, like he’s trying to sink deeper still. His heart thudding against her shoulder, cum hot and slick inside of her every time his hips press forward, tensing and easing against her.

Nico’s hand slides along her skin, over her hip, her side, over her stomach and ribs and chest, down again, to stroke over her sex, his fingers dragging some of her release up her stomach in a shiny trail beneath his fingertips.

Ellie straightens her fingers, the ones buried in his hair, tightens them again, his head tilting up, his mouth pressing to her neck, her shoulder, the top of her arm.

Ellie glances at her phone, debating it.

“Stay,” he mumbles against her skin, his voice rough and low. “Fuck your mother.”

Ellie laughs, still a little breathless; pushing against him, feeling him inside of her, slicked by cum. “I’d rather fuck my daddy.”

Nico huffs a laugh into her skin, nips her shoulder before reaching for her phone, his arm just long enough to reach it without moving them, and hands it to her.

His hold on her eases, just a little, laying back against the bed, but Ellie’s body follows him, her leg splayed over his lap, her head on his shoulder, leaning against his side and nearly on top of him.

She thumbs open her messages as Nico strokes her thigh, fingers curving around the inside of it, right up to where he’s still tucked inside of her, over her hip, up her stomach… her skin pebbling beneath his palm, the slightly rough tips of his fingers on her belly, her ribs, the hard peak of her nipples.

She twitches slightly, but she opens her mother’s message and lets Nico touch her.

 

 

 

 

> _M: Morning, Peanut! Hope you slept well, Paul and I are heading out to do some cake tasting and wondered if you wanted to go? If not, I’d like to see you for lunch after, we’ll pick you up at one? Let me know xo_

 

“Peanut?” Nico rumbles beneath her, something teasing in his tone.

Ellie flushes, dropping her phone to bed and pinching his side; Nico flinches, laughing all sleep-rough beneath her.

It’s a nice feeling, all rumbly and warm; makes her squirm a little against him, wanting to face him and not, all at once.

“Nickname,” she says, easing into him, glancing down at her phone and debating her choices.

“Why Peanut?”

Ellie shrugs, pushing her hand over the back of his on her side, trying to match them up, but his fingers stretch on after hers, his hand wider; he turns it, lets her press them palm to palm, fingers stretching out along his, looking stupidly small.

She laughs a little. “Something about what I looked like in those pictures, you know, the— whatever they’re called—”

“Ultrasounds.”

“Yeah, those. Something about calling me her Peanut before I was born, and then… it just stuck, I guess.”

Nico’s other hand is still wide on her stomach and there’s something about it lying there, something about their hands pressed together, about the size difference in him compared to her—

About his cum, stuffed up inside her, his cock holding her full.

The same cum that made her.

Neither one says anything, but she knows she’s not alone in the moment, the awareness—

The reality of his cock inside of her being the same one that made her.

That left her mother with that _Peanut_.

His heart beats a little bit faster beneath her shoulder, and Ellie’s follows the same uptick, her stomach twisting at the weight of it all. The coldness of fact.

Of truth.

He really is Pandora’s Box, she thinks.

Given to her but not in the way he should have been—

Nico’s hand falls out of hers, and when he pulls away, she winces as his cock slips out of her, his cum seeping as she sinks onto her back, watching the flex of his muscles, the shift of his spine as moves to the side of the bed, sitting there and saying nothing.

His hand drags through his hair, rubs the back of his neck, falling down over the side it.

And then he reaches back, arm twisting as his upper body does to curve around her waist and drag her into his lap, manhandling her up and over her shoulder as he stands.

“Fuck that,” he says, and pinches her bottom. “It’s too early for this shit.”

Ellie laughs, watches the flex of his ass as he walks into the bathroom and pinches him back, enjoying his hand smacking down lightly on her ass cheek as he steps into the shower.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the next chapter will actually have some plot :/


	19. Part Two, IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! This is actually the proper chapter now, not the note, hope you all enjoy it and thanks again, so much, for all the amazing comments lately! You're all the absolute best an author could hope for!

 

* * *

 Part Two, IV

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

>    S: _At restaurant. No activity._

 

Nico gives Sergei’s updates a quick glance. A photo of Ellie at her mother’s side at the restaurant, looking out the window at the street.

 _Who the fuck takes window seats,_ he thinks, staring at the small bright blur of Ellie behind the glass of the restaurant windows, seated at the white-tableclothed table. Itches to text her, wishes it were a video and not just a still-frame image of her half-hidden in the haze of city-lights reflecting on glass. Wishes he could send her a message, watch that slow spread of a smile cross her face; watch his dimples in her cheeks.

 “Am I seriously on kid duty tonight?” Matty tilts back in Nico’s chair, a beer bottle hanging loose at his fingertips. “Where’s Liam?”

“Busy,” Nico says, locking his phone and tucking it back into his pocket. “There’s a shipment coming in and he’s handling it.”

“Why can’t I handle it? Let Liam watch your girl.”

“Because Frank hates you, Matty, you know that.”

“So?” Matty shrugs, “You can’t like everyone you do business with. Frank’s a certified asshole.”

“Frank can also keep his cock in his pants, unlike some people.”

“Oh, come on, _that’s_ why he hates me? His daughter’s like twenty-something, she knew what she wanted— believe me.”

“You don’t get decide what someone takes offence to. Business and dicks shouldn’t mix. Remember that and maybe you would be on shipment duty tonight and not kid duty.”

Matty huffs, bringing the beer to his mouth. “And Sergei?”

“His sister. You’ll be his relief for a few hours.”

“Thought she was doing better?”

Nico sighs, turning away from the glass and his employees down below, setting up for the evening. “Don’t think you get better from something like that, Matty. You just try to manage it.”

Matteo goes quiet, swallowing another mouthful before standing. “Alright. Can I at least talk to her this time?”

“Ellie? Only if you’ve somehow learned how to do it telepathically.”

Matty shoots him an unimpressed look. “Why can’t I just—”

“Because Ellie hasn’t told her mother about me, yet, Matty, Christ, use your brain.”

“Wait, so I have to sit outside of that apartment for how long?”

Nico shakes his head, pushing a hand through his hair. “Forget it. I’ll send Gabe. He can at least keep his ass in a car.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it,” Matteo huffs, leaning against. “I would just like to talk to her sometime too, you know. You can’t keep her hidden away forever.”

“I’m not trying to keep her hidden away. But she’s got her own life and her own fam— her mother to think about too. After Thanksgiving, I’ll bring her around for dinner or something.”

“Fine,” he huffs, watching Nico across the office. “Still kinda crazy to me that she’s your daughter. I mean, seriously, seventeen years. I was what, eight, when she was born?”

Nico nods, leaning against the glass, feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket.

 

 

 

> S: Not happy. Paperwork on table.

 

Another photo attached. Pages in Ellie’s hand, her face hidden behind the sweep of her hair.

He frowns at it, putting his thumb and forefinger to the screen to enlarge the photo. But he can’t make anything out. 

“Yeah,” he mutters absently, staring at the screen for another long moment like he can absorb that look on her face, find meaning in the pixelated blur of her unhappiness. Tucking his phone away and crossing his arms, he looks back to his brother, feeling itchy and restless, a low burning need to fight or fuck or…

Or something.

(To chase the indent between her brows with his finger, smooth out the worry, press his lips to hers and see if she’s okay.)

“Yeah,” he says again, pushing the thoughts away, ignoring the itch in his chest. “You would have been eight.”

“It’s kinda crazy how much Russian she got though, huh? Straight up Zhurov eyes and hair—”

“Matty,” he bites out, pushing out a breath. “Really don’t want to talk about how much she looks like the guy that’s been fucking stalking her for weeks before I even fucking realised he was near her.”

Matteo shrugs, pushing off the desk and wandering over to the window, a crooked smile on his mouth. “Can’t be everywhere at once, man. He didn’t do anything, that’s what matters.”

 _But he could have,_ he thinks. _He could have taken her, touched her, killed her—_

And Nico wouldn’t have even known.

All because he was too concerned with hiding the fact that he was fucking her. Is. _Is fucking her_. Now it’s a balance, a razor wire line between those who know only _who_ she is to him and those who know _what_ she is to him.

How do you section off a life? Slice it apart with that same wire, trying to keep each little piece from touching another, to hold all of it together still; all for the sake of image and—

And fucking morality.

“She is pretty though. Her mom must be something.”

“Ellie’s prettier,” he says easily, without thinking much about it, even though he thinks he should backtrack on the words as soon as they leave his mouth. But he doesn’t; a simple fact. Loren was a sharp-nailed, sharp-mouthed girl who hated him as much as she wanted to fuck him. He doubts that’s changed at all. Seventeen fucking years later. “She’s got my dimples.”

Matteo nods, leaning against the window, looking down below them through the one-way wall of glass. “Noticed that.”

It’s hard, so fucking hard not to say more. Feels like he’s choking on all the things he wants to say. Wants, just for a minute to tell someone all the things in his chest.

 _You should see her,_ he thinks, _see her smile for me. Her laugh. Her tears. Should see how she looks asleep in my bed. Waking up in it. Fresh from a shower. How she leaks for hours after I’ve come inside of her._

_Look at her and tell me you wouldn’t do it too._

“Is it weird she makes me feel really fucking old?” Matty complains, frowning down at the club staff below them.

Nico laughs through the tightness in his chest, pushing off the glass, a rough, deep burst of it out of his chest. “I fucking _know_. Seventeen fucking years, Matty. Didn’t even know she _existed_.”

He tugs a hand through his hair, moving back towards his desk, that itchy, restless feeling inside of him growing. The same one that lead him to Manhattan Beach itching for a fight. The one that seems to grow the longer he goes without seeing her—

Knowing how long he has to go until he can see her again.

 _80/20,_ he thinks, _is no way to live._

But how thin can he can risk cutting his life apart, how many slices before the whole thing just…collapses?

“You know what, fuck this, want to hit Vadim’s? I’ll put two others on Ellie, I need to burn off some steam.”

Matty turns, his smile breaking wide and quick. “Fuck yeah I do. Haven’t seen you fight in a while.”

Nico nods, reaching for his phone and finding Gabe listed in his contacts, a quick text to get him to relieve Sergei for the night…

And he takes a moment, just one more, to look at Ellie’s face on his screen, the pink-cheeked, red-nosed selfie she took running a few days before.

“Come on then,” he says, ignoring the swell of that too-tight, too-sharp, too-needy feeling beating inside of him, and heading for the door. “I promise not to mess up your pretty face.”

“Oi, _I’m_ not fighting _you_ ,” Matteo calls out behind him as he follows him, Nico’s smirk growing.

“Pussy,” he taunts, not looking back.

“Nah, no way! You’re like a solid size class above me. Not happening.”

“Weak, Matty, so weak.”

He laughs, feeling Matteo’s shove against his back, his rough, humoured _fuck right off, asshole,_ when Nico doesn’t stumble at all from the shove. 

               

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

                “I don’t understand,” Mya says through the laptop screen, lying on her own bed, a face mask on, frowning at Ellie. “I thought it was just a name change?”

Ellie shrugs, trying to will her heart back into her chest, to shove it out of where it’s lodged in her throat, feels like it’s been stuck there since dinner. Since her mother set a stapled, folded bunch of papers on the table between them and said, _wouldn’t it be nice if we were all one family?_

“I don’t understand why your mom is pushing this now?” Mya says, watching Ellie. “I mean, they’re getting married, I guess, but you’ve only known him for what? Three years?”

“Almost four,” she says, feels disconnected from it all, the papers folded beside her, creased from being stuffed in her bag and pulled back out.

“El… are you okay?”

“He’s not my dad,” she says quietly, itches to say the rest; sits like bile in her throat, wants to spill it, to let it burn out of her, all these sick truths.

_Nico’s my dad, Mya. Like my real, honest to God, Dad. And I think I might be in lo—_

“He’s not my dad,” she says again, a little stronger. “But I love my mother. I do, Mya, I—” she swallows, her heart still thumping, pumping in her throat. “I swear I love her but I don’t want to be his daughter. I don’t feel like— I’m not _his.”_

Mya’s face softens into something sad like she can feel that ache in Ellie’s throat. “I know.”

But she can’t know. Can’t understand how many years Ellie wondered, asked, pushed the idea of _Dad_ before she accepted her mother’s words, like nightly kisses, promises of _you and me, just you and me, Peanut, that’s good enough, isn’t it?_

“I can’t tell her no,” she rushes, feels like she can’t stop now that her mouth’s moving. “I don’t know how to tell her that I don’t feel at home here. That I don’t want to be a Hethridge. That she’s my mom and I love her but I can’t do this _one stupid thing for h-her_.”

Mya stays quiet, not saying anything as Ellie swipes a hand over her cheek. “I love her, Mya. She’s given up so much for me—”

She stops, swallows past the lump in her throat, pulling in a too tight breath. “But I can’t sign those papers. I _can’t_. Paul isn’t my _dad,_ he’s n-not—”

“She won’t even fucking tell me who i-is, you know?” Ellie hithes, biting her lip, feeling her chest jerk and trying to hold in the too-loud sound of a sob. “I’ve— I’ve been asking for fuckin’ _years._ For _years, Mya._ For anyth—thing. Why couldn’t I have met him before?”

“Maybe she doesn’t know where he is?” she offers quietly. “Maybe she knows he— maybe he just didn’t want a kid, El…it’s shit. It’s absolute shit. But maybe he just didn’t want—”

Ellie groans, dropping her head to her bed, burying her face in it, pushing the hitching of her breathing into warm, cotton-stifled breaths.

 _He does,_ she cries in her head, _he does want me! He didn’t leave. He didn’t walk away. He didn’t not want to be my father—_

He just didn’t know she fucking existed.

“You’re almost eighteen, it’s like, what, a month? Maybe you can just push it off for a little longer? Maybe—”

The knock on her door cuts off whatever Mya was about to say.

“I’m talking to Mya!” Ellie yells, pulling her head out of the duvet and wiping her face. “Go away!”

 _“Ellie—”_ Paul says through the door. “ _That’s enough now. Your mother wants to talk about this. Unlock the door._ ”

“Go away!”

“ _You’re acting like a child._ ”

“Well I am one according to those papers!”

 _“Ellie, enough—”_ Paul’s voice is harder, frustrated, the teacher voice to bring the class back under control. “ _Five minutes. Downstairs. Or I take the door off the frame.”_

There are footsteps fading, thumping down the stairs, a swell of voices before they fade too.

“Fuck you, Mister Hethridge,” Ellie mutters, dropping her head back to the bed, curling up on her side, leaving Mya with only the top of her head to look at.

“This is _stupid,_ ” she mumbles hotly, her eyes burning again. “Fuck all of this.”

“Don’t hate me,” Mya says, distantly, through the Skype call. “Is it really a big deal if it’s legal? I mean, you can just pretend it isn’t, and when you’re a little older you can change it back?”

 _No,_ she thinks, it shouldn’t be a big deal, should it? It shouldn’t matter to her what her last name is, so long as her mother’s happy, so long as they’re together, just like she said.

It shouldn’t matter—

But it _does_.

“He’s not my dad,” she says wetly, Nico behind her eyelids, his hands and mouth and his voice—

“He’s not.”

“…I know,” Mya sighs. “Thirty days, El, just try to hold them off. They can’t make you at eighteen.”

 

 

                It’s hours later, after another argument, another round of _why’s_ and _why-nots_ with her mother and Paul before Ellie’s sliding into bed, updating Mya with a quick text that she’ll call tomorrow, smiling faintly at the sad face she gets back, when her screen lights up with a phone call.

_Nico._

Her heart skips a beat, but there’s still an ache in her throat and she doesn’t know how to talk to him right now. Doesn’t know what to say—

He’s not her dad either, she thinks. Not now. He’s… so much more than that—

So much more than just her _dad._

He’s—

She mutes the call, staring at his name as it stays on her screen, leaving it face-up to watch it.

Watches the ping of a mixed call notification.

A text following seconds later.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> N: _Thought I might catch you before bed. Hope your day with your mother went okay._
> 
> N: _See you soon, baby._

 

Ellie rolls over, blinking into the dark.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> E: I’m okay, busy day with mom. Back to school today, talk to you soon.

 

Nico frowns at the text, the same one that’s been sitting on _Read_ for a day. Fourteen words, one text.

For a whole fucking _day._

Nearly two days, it’s halfway through Tuesday and he swears he’s almost broken his phone just from locking and unlocking, from thumbing her contact, hovering over the call button—

 

 

 

 

                Ellie wraps Nico’s sweater around her tighter, leaning against the wall behind her dorm bed, bringing her sweater-covered hand to her mouth and inhaling the faint traces of him still left in the fabric.

It’s bad, she thinks, to be this attached. To be this desperate for another person. 

But—

But she spent Sunday night, Monday, feeling like she was stuck, torn, being cut open by trying to still be who she was before Nico and being who she wants to be _with_ Nico.

Because somewhere between seeing him in that club, and now, right now, Ellie knows she’s _different_. That the steps it takes to hide pieces of your life, to willingly lie, to _happily_ keep lying just to keep doing it…

She’s not just her mother’s Peanut anymore.

And she doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know what to do with how much she wants him, needs him, fucking _misses_ him so much it hurts— and he’s right there, a phone call away and she couldn’t fucking make herself call him because she doesn’t know what to do with the easy, sickeningly easy fact that she thinks she knows, in all the little, dark, whispering corners of her mind, that she thinks she’d go to war with her mother if it meant keeping Nico in her life.

And how terrible is that?

A stomach churning, horrifying thought that she doesn’t know who she’d pick if she had to.

How can she justify that to herself, to anyone? Seventeen years of her life without him, seventeen years her mother gave her, loved her, protected her…

And Ellie can’t sign a fucking piece of paper.

(But he sits in her mind, in the faint smells stuck in the fabric of his sweater and he comes to life in her mind like a slow blur of colours and hands and a heavy, all-consuming voice made just for her.)

And she’s pulling out her phone before she can stop herself, thumbing over the call button and letting it ring.

“ _Ellie—_ ” he says, all warm and rough in her ear.

 

 

 

                “ _Ellie_ ,” he breathes out, his eyes closing, dropping his forehead to his arm on his desk. His heart beating faster than it should be. Her voice in his ear like a full breath of air after choking for two fucking days.

She was fine, he knows. He might not have spoken to her, might not have messaged her—

But he knew she was fine. Knew she was with her mother and then at school. Knew she was in one piece. Saw her laughing with Mya as she crossed from one school building to another.

Couldn’t help himself but to check on her. Couldn’t help himself, even though seeing her laughing, seeing her fine and whole and happy was somehow a stitch and a wound all at once.

“ _I’m sorry,_ ” she says in his ear. “ _There was some stuff— my mom and— I’m sorry._ ”

“It’s fine,” he says pulling himself back together. Suffocating that part of him that was choking on fear, choking on loneliness, choking on _she’s gone, she changed her mind, you never should have touched her—_

“It’s fine. It everything alright now?”

A pause, weighted silence, nothing through the phone but her quiet breathing. “ _Better now,_ ” she says quietly. _“I miss you.”_

He breathes out, leaning back in his chair. “Miss you too, El. More than I can tell you.”

“I have a shift tomorrow night until seven, but I thought maybe after—”

“Yes,” he says, too quickly. Too eager. He can’t find it in himself to care. “I’ll be there.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

                “You’re different.”

Nico glances up from the numbers on the tablet in front of him, his finger pausing on the slow scroll down the screen.

Irina looks at him, her dark eyes narrowed as she studies him, her nails sharp and glinting as she drums her fingers along the arm of the couch she’s sitting on; tilted slightly sideways, her legs crossed, the leather shine of her heeled boots catching the soft-glowing lights above them.

It’s his office, but she looks more than at home sitting in it.

“Am I?”

Irina’s head tilts, her hair, pulled over one shoulder in loose waves, shining in the soft lighting. Her fingers drum. Their eyes meet. “Yes.”

He’s curious, he can’t lie, wonders what ways she finds him different, if he is at all or if this is just her trying to pull him into a conversation where the finish line is some leading words towards a bedroom, a horizontal surface, hell, a fucking _wall._

He doubts she’d be all that picky about the _where_ or _how_ of it, just as long as it’s him.

But he doesn’t ask, because there’s nothing for him in her and he already apologised, (shrugged off her hands, told her, _no, it was a mistake, it can’t and won’t ever happen again._ )

He looks back at the screen, taking in the weekly numbers, each of his crew’s intakes and losses; the room goes quiet as he scrolls.

“You’re… relaxed,” she says at length, and he can just hear the faint accusation, a little trail of it like the _pitpitpitpit_ of the sharp of her nails drumming on the leather couch arm.

 _Probably,_ he thinks, _regular fucking will do that to any man._

And quieter, beneath that: _She’s still with me. I didn’t fuck this up._

“It’s been quiet,” he says instead, eyes not leaving the tablet. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’ve got Russians where they shouldn’t be?”

“In my city, surrounded by my men. I might not like it, but I think I’ve got the upper hand here, don’t you?”

_Pitpitpitpit_

“You seemed pretty pissed off last week about the Russian.”

“Last week I found out he knew about my daughter. This week she’s got more men on her than the fucking queen of England.”

“And how does she feel about that?”

 “What she doesn’t know, won’t hurt her.”

“Ah,” she says, her chin lifting, her lips twisting into a smile; her boots shine as she shifts a little in her seat, easing more into it. “You haven’t told her.”

“Tell her what, exactly, Irina?” he says absently, still focused on the numbers in front of him.

“What we do, who you are,” she says easily. “This life.”

At that he does look up, keeping his face empty. “You my therapist?”

She looks down, her lashes thick on her cheeks before she looks back at him, her smile falling as she dips her chin, an apology. “Just curious. It was an… _interesting_ first meeting. And I haven’t had the pleasure again.”

 _I have,_ he thinks, _over and over and over—_

“And?” he says, lifting a brow. “Should I invite you to dinner, then? Bring her around here? What’s a good time for you to meet my daughter?”

She shrugs, lips quirking. “Maybe not here.”

He huffs, “You think?”

“You could bring her to the gym sometime, my father misses you, he was thrilled when you came by Sunday night with Matty. Not that he ever shuts up about you to begin with.”

 _The son I never had,_ they both say at the same time, Irina’s voice pitching low, mimicking her father’s clipped accent; they both laugh, the moment quiet and easy with all the years they’ve known each other.

“Maybe sometime,” he says, setting the tablet down and leaning back in his chair, stretching out his spine, and his legs beneath the desk. “When’s the next fight?”

“Next week, Marco and Will.”

He considers it, has no idea how Ellie feels about watching two men fight and pummel themselves bloody. “Maybe.”

“Though I wouldn’t say no dinner,” she smiles, glossy lips spreading wide. “I mean, she’s part of your life now and I feel like you have this whole other life I don’t know anything about. I mean, what do you even do with her?”

 _What don’t I do,_ he thinks, _what don’t I want to do to her?_

It’s hard not to laugh, it sits in his chest, a bubble of sick humour. A twisting, saturated carousel of images, all soft skin and pink cheeks, bitten-red lips and twisting sounds.

“We watch Disney movies and have tea parties,” he deadpans, staring Irina down, his thoughts sinking into slick little memories of Ellie’s hands, her lips, her hot little tongue—

A poker face is an underappreciated talent.

Irina laughs, her head tilting back, teeth glinting. “Oh, I can’t even imagine that.”

But when she looks back at him, he knows she is imaging it, but he highly doubts it’s with the seventeen-year-old girl Ellie is, but rather the idea of it, _daughter_ and _Disney_ and _tea parties._

He really would like to know when her feelings changed. Why they changed when his never have—

Not really, other than the abstract awareness that she’s attractive. Something he’s been aware of since puberty, since girls became something _other,_ became something to _want._

He hates himself for fucking her, for giving into the shame stuck against his skin after that shower. After that lunch in the car. His hands heavy with it, his stomach sick with it, his body lit up by the fucking idea, fantasy, memory of Ellie’s soft, sweet little kiss to his cheek lingering like a ghost-touch, a phantom itch against his skin.

And God, he can’t help but think back to it sometimes, like her lips are still there, like he’s back in that car, his heart in his throat, her skin so close to his mouth, his want like a fucking knife, burying itself in his stomach.

 “She’s seventeen, not seven,” he forces out, pushing away that ghost of the girl she was and focusing on the girl she is, the one that smiles as he fucks her, asking for more and more and more _still_. “She’s her own person already. I’m just getting to know her.”

Irina nods as Nico looks back at the tablet, pushing out thoughts of anything that isn’t work and numbers and dollar signs.

“You just never wanted kids, you know.” Irina’s voice drifts into his awareness again and he debates sending her out of his office, but he still has the tablet and it is her job to get these numbers for him. “You’ve always been pretty set on that.”

“Condom’s break, Irina. It’s not Ellie’s fault who her father is.”

Irina says nothing to that, the room falling silent, his words linger in his mind, just how true they are.

It isn’t Ellie’s fault that she was born to two stupid teenagers not ready for her. Not her fault that her mother hated him enough— _fears_ who he is and what he represents enough that she decided hiding his fucking _child_ from him was her best option.

It’s not Ellie’s fault that she grew up without him. Not her fault that they didn’t meet until she was already old enough to not need him. Until he was nothing more than a picture and an idea tucked behind her cellphone.

Not her fault that when they did meet, when there were no lines and boundaries set between them. Not her fault that when he saw her—

It isn’t Ellie’s fault. None of it is.

It’s his.

And he’s still torn between guilt and not caring. Because he hadn’t lied to her, he made that choice and he owns it. He made a choice and he’s going to keep making it _. Going to keep fucking making it_ because she’s his and he can’t, won’t, isn’t ever going to fucking give her up.

But still.

“What would you do if you found out you were pregnant; can’t imagine you’d be happy about it?”

“Depends on whose it is,” she says lightly.

Her words catch him off-guard. Such an easy statement so full of meaning. He doesn’t want to look up at her, doesn’t want to see what’s on her face at all; bites back the, _it won’t ever be mine_ in his throat.

Nico leans back in his chair and looks at her across his office as he hears her stand, righting her clothes and moving to lean against the edge of his desk, her hip against it, one long-nailed hand reaching out for the tablet.

Nico watches her, as she runs her finger over the screen, searching for something.

If he could go back, he thinks, to that dinner, to that night where he thought guilt and shame could be buried inside another body…

He’d tell himself he’s a fucking idiot. To wait. Just fucking _wait_.

“I would like to meet Ellie again,” Irina says and Nico can’t help but hate how that name sounds in her mouth. It’s _his_ , he thinks, she's his. “She is yours after all, and not going anywhere… obviously.”

Her finger stops, landing on Manhattan Beach. “Numbers are back up after your little… home run with those two dealers.”

He doesn’t bother answering her, leans his elbow on the arm of the chair and watches her face, lit up in the glow of the screen. He would have seen those numbers eventually; when he told those dealers he knew how much Manhattan Beach accounted for in his business, he wasn’t lying.

He isn’t sure where she’s going with this.

“And kids are important, you know. Look at your parents, how far you’ve come, what they’ve passed on to you and what you’ve earned on your own. Don’t you want to pass that down after your done?”

He hates that assumption, that he’s creating something with the purpose of a legacy. Like his intentions are to shift history and leave a mark in the shape of his name stamped in the streets of New York.

“Don’t you want to have a family to continue that?”

“You sound like my parents,” he mutters, rubbing his hand along his jaw, the short brush of his stubble against his fingertips.

“They’re not wrong, even my father thinks—”

“Your father has been trying to get me to marry you since we were _seven_.”

“He’s not wrong either,” she says, with a quick, wide grin. “But, really, Nic, have you never thought about it?”

“We’re not the Mafia, Irina,” he says slowly, his eyes flicking to hers. “We’re not the Mob. Not Italian or Russian. We’re a business that runs because I want it to run. We own New York because I wanted to own New York. There’s nothing more to it.”

“That’s not true and we both know it. Don’t treat me like I haven’t known you since we were kids. Like I haven’t been with you since the beginning.”

“What do you want to hear then, then? That I want to get married and have kids and raise them to live this life because I tell them to? That they’ll have to take over simply because they were born to it?”

“That’s how this life goes, Nico, it’s always been that way and it always will.”

He shakes his head, pushing out a breath. “That’s the Russian in you.”

“Russian in you too.”

“Me? I’m nothing. I’m an international mutt adopted by New York. I’m the Russian joke to the Italians. The Italian bastard to the Russians—”

“And you _took it all_ — All of it. You pushed out those families and took all of it. But then what? Does it all die with you? All that _work—_ ”

“ _Work—_ ” he snorts, head tilting back against the back of his chair, eyes narrowing. “Pride and ego, Irina. Violence and dead men. It wasn’t fucking _work._ ”

“But it’s _yours!_ ” her voice pitches, straightening off the desk. “It’s yours and if you didn’t want to keep it you wouldn’t go swinging baseball bats at minor-league fucking nobodies selling coke to college kids. If you didn’t want a fucking legacy than why fucking bother?”

She’s not wrong. Not entirely. He does want to keep it, but it’s not for the reasons she’s thinking. She’s never really understood him.

He stares her down, waiting. “You done?”

She snorts, crossing her arms and staring out the wall of glass that overlooks the club below them, dark and empty now, waiting for business to start tonight.

“You have the respect of every connected family left in New York and the surrounding cities, the Russians _and_ the Italians. Your name means something to them. It means something here. Why not make that last?”

“Because it’s not for anybody fucking else,” he bites out, voice sharper than he means it to be. “I didn’t do this for my fucking last name. I did it because I wanted to. I keep doing it because I fucking _want to_. That’s it. That’s all it is.”

“That’s not how it works and you know it! You don’t get to be one man forever. One day the other families are going to want assurances that what they have with you isn’t going to end— The Marino’s are already restless in Chicago—”

“And what, you think having fucking _kids_ will solve that?”

“A fucking _line_ would settle that and you know it. Your last name is what matters, and having one seventeen-year-old daughter is going to cut it unless you—”

“Don’t even say it,” he warns, his voice hard. “Don’t even think it.”

Irina’s mouth snaps shut but opens again seconds later. “The business has to come first, it always—”

“Then marry Matty, Irina. Because it won’t fucking be me.”

She stops, her body tensing, a flash of something in her eyes before she turns, her sharp heeled boots clicking as she walks away.

“You’re a fucking asshole.”

The door slams. He sighs, closing his eyes and rubbing his hands over his face as he pushes out every last inch of breath in his lungs before breathing in again.

He knows she isn’t wrong.

 

 

 

               

 

 

 

                “Hi,” Ellie says as she slips into his car Wednesday night, all pink-cheeked and pink-nosed in the cold pitch of the night.

“Hey,” he says back, low and quiet as he takes her in. It’s barely been a second since she climbed in, her backpack thumping to the floor of the car, her body still sinking into the seat even as she twists, one leg curled beneath her to face him when she pauses, and he doesn’t have to guess why.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, her eyes searching his face, a crease between her brows.

He’s been in a bad mood since Irina left all those truths in her wake and he’s been fighting the echo of them in his ears for hours.

Nothing more than his mother said, his father silent but in agreement at her side. Nothing more than fact and truth.

Nico should get married. Should have kids. Should should should—

He’s already thirty-fucking four and—

And he’s fucking his fucking seventeen-year-old daughter like—

Like it’s at all fucking sustainable.

Sat there, through dinner, being reminded about his age, about who this girl is and all he could think about was seeing her. Counting down the minutes, the seconds, the slow crawl of time inching towards seven—

Because he’s fucking his seventeen-year-old daughter and he knows, easily, readily, like a cut-throat bleed out, he’s fucked up over her and there’s no way he’s making it out alive.

“Nothing,” he lies, reaching for her. “Long day.”

But she sinks down, his fingers closing on the place her jacket should have been, material slipping through her fingers as she sits on one folded knee, facing him, her brows sunk together.

“Something’s wrong,” she says, her eyes moving minutely like she can read everything sitting beneath his eyes and burning inside the white of his skull.

“Yeah,” he grunts and reaches for her again. “You’re over there and not over here kissing me.”

Her mouth twitches but she doesn’t move until he’s fisting her jacket and hauling her over the middle console, spills her into his lap in a mess of scrawny, cold limbs and coffee, burnt sugar smell.

Straight from work to sign in for curfew, straight from signing in and right back out her window. Straight to him across a cold field to his waiting car.

 _Jesus,_ he hisses when her hands land on the side of his neck, the cold tips of her fingers travelling through him, but then he’s tilting his mouth to press against hers and really—

Is he supposed to be able to think after that?

 

 

 

 

                Ellie tucks her hand into his on quiet trek across the underground lot, her fingers a little warmer, her lips a little redder, her cheeks just as pink but for entirely different reasons as he leads her to the elevator.

Her eyes cut to his, head tilting up to look up at him. “Stop staring,” she whines, pressing closer into his side, turning her face into his arm.

“I’m not,” he says, with a crooked smile, but it’s a weak lie at best as they step into the elevator and he can see her reflection in the mirror-wall and he is literally watching her face when she meets his eyes.

Ellie rolls her eyes, pulling her bottom lip into her mouth, her eyes sinking to the floor, lashes dark on her cheeks; tinting pinker, a flush crawling across them.

He smirks, just a little, humoured by the sight of her embarrassment.

But they both stay quiet on the way up and then the doors are opening and he’s rolling his key chain over his finger to flip to his loft key, Ellie silent and waiting as his hand slips out of hers.

Into the loft, all quiet and dark, until he flips the light switch on the wall, a few low hanging decorative lights flickering to life above them with a soft glow. Kneeling down to untie his shoes, Nico half watches Ellie toe off her sneakers clumsily beside him.

“Still staring,” she grumbles, moving towards the kitchen the fridge light glowing brighter as she grabs a water bottle and cracks it open, glancing at him as she drinks.

“Not,” he lies, lips quirked as he stands, moving to stand behind her, leaning against the island.

She swallows, passing him the bottle in offering.

He drinks, watching her as she watches him, lit up in the cold glow of the fridge.

“I want to have a shower,” she says as he swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The bottle mostly empty as he tosses into the sink with a hollow smack against the metal. “I’m all… gross from work.”

He shrugs, “Smell good to me, but sure, if you want to.”

Ellie eyes him, her mouth moving a little as she chews her cheek, a habit he’s noticed, nervous sometimes, or thinking about things she isn’t saying.

He is staring, he knows, but he feels like he’s on borrowed time and if he looks away—

But, she stays silent, turning away and heading up the stairs as Nico follows behind her, just as quiet. There’s flour, or something, on the side of her thigh, like she wiped her hand on her pants at some point.

But her ass looks cute in her leggings, her Roastery t-shirt bunched up from her coat, from his hands in the car, sneaking beneath it to get at the soft warm skin on her sides.

He kinda wants to bite it. Hear that little hitch -gasp she gives, ass up, face down, palming her open—

Upstairs, Ellie disappears into the bathroom, Nico lingers at the edge of the bed, watching her go, reaching for his tie before he remembers he already tugged it off after dinner with his parents; frustrated and angry at everything.

Almost everything, he thinks, when Ellie leans back out of the bathroom, one hand on the frame, her face lit only by the low light of his side table and the city outside the glass.

She bites her lip, leans forward a little more, tilted and holding on as she looks at him. “ _So_ …” she starts, swaying lightly. “Want to have a bath with me?”

His instinct is no because he’s not a _bath guy_ , but then the image of Ellie comes: pink-cheeked, hot-skinned, slippery-limbed…

And he stands, making his way over to her as she straightens to stand against the doorframe, her hands tucked behind her, looking up at him and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

“Why are you still dressed?” he asks, catching the edge of her grin as he steps up to her, crowding her against the doorframe.

Ellie looks up at him, her eyes bright in the light coming from the bathroom, her mouth soft when licks her lips.

It’s hard not to kiss her. Hard not to open his mouth and tell her how much he—

“Can we—” she stops, swallows, looks down and then back up. “Can we just not worry about anything tonight? Just—”

“Yeah,” he says, his mouth tilting up a little, something fond and sad and aching inside of him. “Yeah, El. I’d like that.”

Ellie nods, her smile quick and soft, her shoulders easing like she’s just as fucking full of all the things between them as he is.

“Be right back,” she says quickly and disappears from the doorway, her socked-feet hollow sounds down the stairs, growing fainter—

A clink of glass, a cupboard—

And then her feet on the stairs as she comes back, grinning, a bottle of vodka and two short glasses in her hand.

He laughs, short and rough, brows lifting. “I feel like I should remind you it’s a school night.”

But Ellie’s practically sliding towards the bathtub, the glasses clinking against the marble ledge, the bottle sloshing as she sets it down and starts peeling off her clothes without any care at all.

The tub’s only half full, but she’s stripping to her bra and underwear and it’s this little black thong—

And Nico’s caught staring, his hands on his belt, his cock hardening in his pants as she leans down to check the water, looking back over her shoulder at him, her hair knotted loose and messy on top of her head.

She grins at him, wide and white and quick—

Before she’s turning again, dropping her ass to the bathtub ledge and twisting the lid of his mother’s favourite vodka, pouring two glasses and offering him one.

“What are you doing?” he says, and he means it to be exasperated, but it comes out so fucking fond it’s shameful.

“Tolerance,” she grins, her dimples deep in her cheek, her eyes bright. “You said we had to work on it, so…”

He huffs a breath, short and humoured. Feeling his own smile spread as he reaches out for the glass. “You have school tomorrow.”

“I know, _Dad,_ ” she teases, lifting her own glass. “I’ve gone hungover before, it’ll be fine.”

He feels like he should argue more but he really could use a fucking drink and Ellie’s already tilting her glass back, downing it in one smooth shot.

And then sputtering, her face scrunching, nose wrinkling as she coughs. “ _Oh my God—_ ”

And he’s knocking his own back, swallowing through the burn as it travels down his throat, his chest, burns hot in his stomach—

Laughs; watching her shake her head like she can’t will the burn away.

Ellie pulls in a sharp high breath, limbs tight for another second before she reaches for the bottle again.

“Slow down there, Princess,” he laughs, reaching for the bottle. “Tolerance doesn’t mean get wasted in five seconds.”

She laughs, leaning back on her hands to look up at him. “What does it mean, then?”

“It means get naked,” he teases, setting the bottle on the tub ledge. “And get in the tub.”

Ellie grins, and Nico watches her stand, peel off her sports bra and thong, stands naked and pebble-skinned in front of him before turning to slip into the tub; makes a stupidly cute noise as she sinks into the water, all high and pitched at the heat on her skin.

It’s moments like these, with Ellie already pinking up from the heat, sinking deeper into the churning water, her face tilted up to his in expectation, eyes all wide and bright… that he wishes she wasn’t who she is. Wishes he could take her picture, wishes he could fucking film her, half-naked, stripped bare, flushed from sex or pinking up with arousal. Wishes he could keep moments of her—

Her smile falters, her tongue darting out. “Nico?”

He forces a quick smile, stripping off his shirt the rest of the way, letting it drop to the floor. Enjoys the way her attention shifts from something playful and sweet to something as thick as the hot air filling the room; the way her eyes follow his hands as he peels off his belt, sink down to his cock when he pushes down his pants, the way she pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, the way it comes out a little more red and wet—

He really wishes he could take a picture of it.

But he slips in behind her, the heat a rolling warmth through his body, not unlike the burn of the vodka on the way down. A slow spreading thing.

Ellie’s smile is back, but she’s pressed a little to the side, watching him settle in the tub, settling on the little sloping ledge along the side of it, the one that lets them sit up in the water… until he lifts an arm and an eyebrow. “You need an invitation?”

Ellie grins, laughs, slinks closer until he can get an arm around her waist and drag her back and onto his lap, loving the little squirm of her body, the hitch of her breathing, because he’s half hard and she’s naked in his lap, pinked up by the heat, nipples hard, breasts all shiny and sweet.

Looks down over her shoulder, his mouth to her neck, her pulse, the still coffee-smelling tinge to her skin beneath his mouth. Brushes a hand over her chest, thumb slipping over her nipple, hand spread wide on her stomach.

 _So small,_ he thinks.

Her breath catches, her ass pressing down and back, hand coming up to slip along his neck, nails scratching, wet and blunt as he sucks a mark into her skin.

“You know what the best part of my week was?”

 _Huh,_ Ellie exhales, and he smiles into her neck, thumb brushing slowly over the hard peak of her nipple, fingers slipping lower along her stomach, feeling the slow tensing, shifting roll of her hips.

He’s had actual lap dances that were nothing near as nice the wanting little rolls of her body.

“You getting in my car,” he mumbles, lips slipping over the tick of her pulse, watching the water lick her skin, climbing higher around them, brushing her breasts now. “Seeing you is the best fucking part of my week, El.”

She makes another noise, turning her head, her fingers twisting into the hair at the back of his head. Their lips meet and it’s a slow sloppy, slippery kiss that’s perfect in its own sloppy slippery way.

“Not gonna fuck you though,” he says against her mouth. “So you better stop squirming.”

She squirms more, whining against his lips. “ _Why_?”

“Just want to be with you,” he says and isn’t sure why it feels so hard to say, why it feels like he should be saying more than just that.

 _Alright?_ He whispers against her ear, thumb still stroking her nipple.

Ellie nods, quickly, hips slowing but not quite staying still.

His hand sinks lower in the water, taps the side of her ass cheek on his lap. “Shut the water off, Princess.”

She slips off his lap and he watches her go, sinking lower in the water to glide across the tub and shut off the taps before sliding back towards him and back into his lap, her face flushed and the loose bits of her hair already stuck in darker tendrils to her skin.

Ellie slinks back onto his lap, and it’s weird, all that wet skin on skin. He’s been in hot tubs and swimming pools, but never like this. His cock between her legs, hard and aching enough beneath her that it takes all of his focus not to say fuck it and lift her up and sink inside of her.

But if he starts, he doesn’t think he’ll stop. And surprisingly—

Surprisingly, he realises, pressing his mouth to the wet heat coming off the sharp of her shoulder, fucking her isn’t the only thing he wants right now.

He reaches for the vodka, pouring them both a little more, holding Ellie to him with his hand spread on her chest as he twists a little to manage it and not lose his balance in the tub.

When they’re both holding their own glass, the clink them together, a little laugh in her chest that makes him smile and kiss her neck, her skin soft beneath his lips. “My mother would say _tvoe zdorovie,_  before letting us take a shot. _”_

“What’s that?” she asks, waiting to drink.

“To your health,” he smirks into her shoulder. “Take a mouthful and swallow it quickly. Russians don’t sip vodka.”

Ellie nods, watching her take a mouthful, her body tensing and easing, settling back against him with a little full-body tremor, her lips parting as she blows out the burn of the alcohol.

He grins into her skin, nipping the sharp of her shoulder, stroking his hand along her skin, down over the slope of her stomach…

 “Why do you speak so many languages?” Ellie asks, her mouth on the rim of her cup, hesitating before she takes another mouthful.

He watches her, the curve of her cheek, the darker slick pieces of hair on her skin, the condensation dripping from the glass over her fingers. It wasn’t really the question he was expecting, though he isn’t entirely sure what he was expecting.

“My parents do, they passed it along to me as I got older. Learned it in pieces, really. When they argued when I was younger they used to slip into their native languages. My father hated English for a long time, used to speak Italian more often than not, Russian if my mother was irritated at him for it. Think I learned more cusses in other languages before I knew them in English.”

Ellie laughs, Nico watches her as he swallows more of his drink. Her jaw shifts, chewing her cheek as she goes quiet.

“Everything okay, sweetheart?”

Ellie shrugs, a graceless, slippery move, the vodka in her glass sloshing before she takes another too large sip, a gulp, setting the mostly empty glass down on the side of the tub.

 _Not so much then,_ he thinks.

“Teach me something,” she asks, her head tilting back as she slumps against him.

“Like what?” he frowns, stroking her thigh beneath the water as she shrugs lazily, muttering _anything._

Ellie waits, Nico thinks, half distracted by her body against his, until—

“Coscia,” he says and taps her thigh. “La gamba,” and runs his hand up the top of her leg to her knee. Ellie repeats it, slowly, awkwardly but it makes him smile all the same.

_Coscia. La gamba._

“Dito del piede,” he says, when her toes poke out from the surface of the water.

_Dito del piede._

His hand travels up her thigh, curving around the back of it, his fingers brushing along the swell of her ass cheek. “Culo.”

“Bel culo," he whispers spreading his hand wide to grope her, to take a hold of her cheek and pull her up and higher in his lap, his mouth sliding along her shoulder.

“Krasivoy zadnitsey,” he says again, rougher, grabbing a palmful. “Moy sladkiy.”

Ellie’s breath deepens, her voice more air when she stumbles over _moy sladkiy._

Nico smiles into her neck, scrapes his teeth on her skin.

“Napivat'sya,” he mutters into her skin, hot against his lips, reaching for her drink with his other hand. 

_Drink._

He brings it up to her mouth, tilts it towards her, her hand coming up all shiny and wet to grasp his wrist. But she lets him tilt it against her mouth, lips parting, throat working—

“Moya khoroshaya malen'kaya devochka,” he says roughly, his hand tightening on her ass cheek, cock heavy beneath her. “My good little girl.”

Turns his hand just enough to rub his fingers over the slippery hot spread of her sex, his cock right there, aching and waiting…

“Cosa dolce,” he whispers, stroking his fingers around her, so close to sinking inside of her. “Sweet thing.”

Her breath hitches, hand tightening on his wrist, nails sharp and blunt, her breath fogging against the glass beneath her lips.

“Mogu ya, detka?”

_Can I, baby?_

Ellie nods, squirming back and against him, her other hand clenching, sharp on his thigh—

But he pulls his hand away. Refilling both their drinks, ignoring the whine in her throat, the roll of her body, when he hands her glass after knocking his own back.

 _“Bevi.”_ He smiles as she squirms, pressing a kiss to her neck, his laughter rolling into her.

_Drink up._

 

 

 

 

 

 

                The next morning, he wakes to Ellie nearly on top of him, leg thrown over his waist, naked, sleep-warm skin pressed to his. Her chest shifting steadily, heart beating slowly, curved over him, her face tucked just beneath his chin.

He strokes a hand through her hair, over the sleep flush on her cheek, pulling it back through the mess of tangles, her hair almost completely out of the knot she had it twisted up in last night.

It’s a fucking wonderful way to wake up.

Runs his other hand over her shoulder, her ribs, the slope of her waist and over the curve of her ass, fingers stroking close to her sex as he caresses down her thigh. Follows the same path back up again, watching the room brighten by slow degrees, enjoying her weight on top of him, her skin beneath his hands until the growing daylight becomes too bright to ignore.

“El,” he mutters, turning his head towards hers, pushing his fingers into her hair. “Sweetheart, wake up.”

Ellie groans, her face turning into his chest, her arm curving higher around his shoulder, up towards his neck, fingers tucking beneath the back of it as her hips push into his.

She shifts against him, a little full body roll, he feels it in the shift of her chest against his, in the curve of her waist, in the tensing of her leg over his body…

He shifts beneath her, tilting onto his side so she slips off of him and onto the bed; knowing that if he doesn’t... he knows he’ll be too tempted to slip inside of her, to fuck her the way he didn’t last night. Let her drink and laugh and go loose against him… took her to bed and ate her out until she was as wet from coming as she was from the water in the tub. Ate her out until she was boneless and mindless, more tremor than girl, all hot skinned like melted taffy, pliant and loose and so sweet still it nearly killed him.

 Ellie groans again, frowning, a too-cute little pout on her face as she turns it into the bed beneath her cheek.

“No,” she mumbles, trying to curl tighter, her hand grasping, slipping over his shoulder. “Stay.”

“I have to get you back to school,” he says quietly, stroking her hair. “Don’t want to be late.”

She mutters something, a curse of some sort, something like _fuck you,_ or _fuck school,_ he isn’t sure which.

He chuckles, presses a kiss to her shoulder. “Come on, sweetheart, time to get up.”

 

 

                Ellie curls tighter as she feels the bed move, Nico’s weight shifting away from her, taking his warmth with him.

She groans, burrowing deeper, hearing his low laughter, his bare footed steps over the wood of his floors as he walks towards the bathroom.

Yawning, Ellie stretches out, enjoying the warm softness of his bed, the stretch of her limbs, the feel of his sheets against her bare skin.

When she finally pushes herself up, Nico’s leaning against the doorframe to his bathroom, toothbrush in his mouth, watching her.

Ellie flops back down, pulling the covers back over her. “Creeper.”

“Can’t help it,” he says, voice rough-edged from sleep, but the weight of his eyes shifts away. Ellie stays buried in his sheets again, thinks about skipping, about asking Mya to cover for her—

But gets up instead, forcing herself out of bed and grabbing a t-shirt from her backpack, and tugging it on as she heads into the bathroom, stifling another yawn.

Nico’s spitting when she steps up beside him, her toothbrush waiting, toothpaste already on it and a glass of water and two little white pills beside it.

“Thanks, Daddy,” she grins, as Nico leans down to press his mouth to her shoulder, fingers slipping up beneath her shirt hem to pinch her bottom.

Ellie jolts, laughing as he walks away, grin crooked and easy in the mirror when he winks at her.

 

 

 

 

 

                “Gotta go,” she mutters into his mouth,  but scrapes her teeth over his bottom lip, catching it, pulling it into her mouth before letting him go and kissing him harder, pressing tighter against him, straddling him in front seat of the still-running SUV.

 _Uh huh,_ he rumbles against her, but his hands are slipping beneath the stretchy waist of her leggings, palming her ass cheeks, groping her and pulling her against the hard bulge of his cock beneath his pants.

Ellie turns her head, pulling in a breath, rolling her hips heavier against him, feeling the slick slip of her underwear as his cock rubs against her.

“Promise you won’t ignore me for two days, baby,” he groans into her neck, his mouth hot, voice rough, hands bruising and heavy and perfect as he urges her into a rolling grind. “Hate it.”

Ellie nods, nails scraping the back of his neck, the short hairs, feeling the tense of his shoulders, shifting muscles beneath her forearms as he grips her, grinds her, hips rolling up to meet hers rough and perfect and hot.

His fingers stretch, turn, slipping deeper between her cheeks, a groan in his chest that rolls into her as they slip, finding how wet she is.

“Fuck me,” Ellie whines, reaching down between them, kissing him hard and rough, her body burning up, too hot and loose and wound tight, all at once.

She still has her fucking coat on.

“Please,” she begs. “Please, Daddy. I need it.”

His belt clinks undone and Nico makes a noise in his throat, the sound bright in the car; his hands cover hers and he’s catching her wrists in one hand, fingers long and iron tight, holding them together. Ellie sucks in a breath, eyes flicking up to his.

Nico looks at her, gaze dark, shifting over her face—

And then his hand is twisting from the back of her pants, around her hip, flat-palmed on her stomach and sinking beneath her under to stroke over her sex. His fingertips hot and damp, curving along her cunt, each long length stroking over her, cupping her and… he curves them, tucks two them inside of her so easily with how wet she is. Her pants and underwear stretched around his wrist, letting her look down and see the shine of herself gathering on his palm as he curls them—

 Ellie moans, tilting forward, but he holds her wrists between them, his other hand working, rubbing deep and steady and quick inside of her, stretching and curling and stretching—

“Always so fuckin’ wet for me, baby,” he growls into her neck. “My needy little thing.”

Ellie’s hips roll, cunt grinding, squelching in his palm, so wet it makes her cheeks burn, for the truth of his words caught in the sound, the slickness on his fingers, pooling in his hand.

“When you get back from your mother’s this weekend, I’m keeping you Monday night,” he hushes in her ear, fingers curling faster, making Ellie pant and groan and twitch and tremble, her own fingers scratching at his shirt, against each other, no purchase, balanced on his lap, rooted by his fingers buried inside of her…

“Gonna fuck you,” Nico warns, voice pitching lower. “All night. Till you can’t walk to class the next day, can’t sit, can’t fuckin’ _move_ without feeling me.”

“ _Daddy_ ,” she hitches, her forehead burning against his shoulder

“I wanna keep you,” he growls, so rough it’s like an engine beneath her, an ignition sparking in her blood and belly and bones. “Just like this, my pretty little girl desperate for her Daddy’s cock.”

 _God,_ she thinks, sinks her teeth into his shoulder, feels him groan, his hands tighter, bruising on her wrist as he keeps her tight against him—

A third finger twists in, Ellie sobs into the wet spot on his shoulder, her whole body tensing, liquefying, trembling as he moves them inside of her.

“Aren’t you?” he groans, as Ellie clenches on his fingers, soaking wet and dripping, desperate for more, even with three fingers buried in her cunt, even with his thumb pressed hard on her clit, even so close to the edge she feels like a fraying nerve ending, a sparking wire, a bolt of lightning pitching towards the earth.

 _Yes,_ she sobs. “ _Yes,_ Daddy—”

“Come on, sweet thing, come on—” he urges, that squelching wet sound brighter in her ears, the slickness between her thighs, soaking through her pants… cunt clenching, body tensing, core throbbing as it builds and builds and—

 _D-daddy—_ she sobs, trembling through the cresting swell, the full-bodied tremor pulsing through her, his fingers working her through it, a rough-rolling curse in his throat, his mouth on her neck, her fingers scrabbling at nothing, his grip on her wrists so tight it nearly hurts.

There’s no thought, no breath, nothing but the air in her lungs and every electric-tipped nerve in her body, nothing but the tremble, quiver of her muscles, the ache in her thighs from clenching, unclenching around his thighs…

Reality comes back in pieces, comes back in the smell of him beneath her mouth, the hard of his shoulder, all heady and masculine, spice-warm. Comes back in his hand easing off her wrists, his mouth on her neck, the sharp of her jaw the curve of her cheek, hand stroking her thigh, her side, pushing up under her shirt. His fingers stroking, so wet it should be embarrassing, over the heat of her slippery sex.

Ellie finds her mind in blinks, in heartbeats, in his mouth when she turns her face to kiss him, to meet his mouth an inhale into it, body still trembling in his lap.

Her hands sloppy and too slow, working his belt loose, open, a clatter of metal and the hiss of a zipper; the sound of him swallowing, his teeth scraping her lip.

Tugs his cock out of his pants, his fingers still buried in her cunt before she shifts back, just enough to look down, to watch his cock in her grip; the thick, too-much, too heavy weight of it in her palm.

He drags his wet hand out of her pants, and she hitches a little breath when his wet hand curves around his own cock, stroking himself, slicking it up with her release, bumping her fist on the upward stroke.

Nico’s wet hand slides over hers, wider and longer, covering it as he strokes their hands down his cock, hers trapped beneath his.

"Like this." He strokes her hand against him, quick and steady, his mouth brushing her cheek as Ellie watches their hands, the thick of his cock jutting out from his pants, the way the thick head shines on every rotating stroke, flushed and slick, a bead of precum making her mouth water, her hips twitch, an ache pulsing through her core.

He comes quietly, faster than she expects, but then, all he did last night was eat her out, jerk off onto her belly, painting her from cunt to trembling chest.

Nico grunts, his hips twitch, thighs tensing, hand tightening over hers, his cum spurting, dripping over their hands. Ellie’s mouth parts, watching it, feeling the throb of his cock beneath her fingers, the pulsing twitch of his release as they smear it over his length on the next twisting climb of their hands over her cock.

“Tissues in the glove box,” he grunts, nipping her jaw, his breath heavy on her skin.

But Ellie’s looking at the white streaks of his cum trailing over his fingers, her hand still trapped beneath his, cock softening.

She turns her hand, taking hold of his hand and pulling it up between them, leaning back just far enough—

Nico groans at the first stroke of her tongue over his finger, the burst of salty-sweet cum in her mouth, slippery on her tongue, chasing it across the tips of his fingers, the back of his knuckles.

It’s a pained sound in his throat, his eyes dark, locked on hers as Ellie sucks his fingers, licks them clean, feels them twitch in her mouth as she sucks two in.

When she slips off his lap and into the other seat, she twists to face him, watching his face, the shifting of his chest as she sinks lower to put her head in his lap. She meets his eyes, checking to make sure it's okay, but Nico doesn’t stop her. His damp hand threads through her hair, scratches her scalp... and the noise he makes as she licks him clean is worth every goddamn thing in the world.

 

                “Call me—” he says voice ragged and rough as Ellie slips out of the car, her legs weak, knees wobbly, the cold chasing the flush from her skin but doing nothing for the heat still burning low in her stomach, between her hips, caught red and kiss-swollen in her lips.

Nico clears his throat. “Call me tonight, when you get off work?”               

Ellie nods, shivering, swears she can feel the cold November chill already freezing her leggings, turning the slick warmth trapped between her thighs into something sticky and cold; makes her wince, flush, ache to do it all again.

“Go on then,” he says as if he hates even pushing the words out of his mouth. “Sooner you go the sooner you get back.”

Ellie nods. There’s something more to say, it sits on her tongue, sits in their eyes as they hesitate, that final second before she turns to go.

But she does. The car door shuts, Nico disappears behind tinted glass and black metal; Ellie crosses the field, wet, aching, missing him already.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

               

                Ellie doesn’t think she’s ever been dreading the end of a shift at the Roastery as much as this one. Never hated watching the clock tick so much. Never hated each shifting number on her cellphone screen. Each number closer. Each second bringing her nearer the weekend and Thanksgiving and—

No fucking Nico.

But it’s busy and distracting, and there’s already Christmas music sinking into the low coffee house playlist they normally have on, and Ellie eases into the routine of it. Into her co-workers' banter, into the coffee, sugar, cinnamon-tinted air around her. Lets the still loose, still warm tint of her body after orgasm (today, last night, one after another beneath his tongue and teeth and fingers and voice urging her into another and another and _my sweet little girl_ ) leave her more at ease than she’s been outside of Nico’s gravity in… in a long time, she realises.

It’s nice, for once, to just accept everything as it is in that moment.

 

Just her life. Nothing more.

 

 

 

                “Oi, El,” Andie says, leaning into the kitchen as Ellie trays up the Turkey shaped cookies. “Your friend’s here.”

Ellie frowns, blowing out a breath to chase the errant hair off her face. “My friend?” she asks, feeling her excitement rise for seconds, imagining Nico standing out in the storefront, like that first day—

“Museum guy?”

And her stomach plummets.

She sucks in a breath, her steps faltering, a stumble of her sneaker against the tile floor. Her eyes darting towards the storefront, where she knows he’ll be, his customary back corner seat, back to the wall, waiting for Ellie—

“Okay,” Ellie chokes out. “Thanks.”

Andie frowns, “Do you want—”

“Nope,” Ellie shakes her head, trying to will her breathing slower, her chest tight and body hot. “I’m good thanks. I’ll be out in a second.”

Ellie pours hot water into a cup, watching two tea bags stain the water before snapping on a lid, pouring a black coffee into another, itching to reach for the marker and write _MAKSIM_ across the curved side.

But she doesn’t.

She snaps the lid, pulls in a breath and smiles at Caleb when he looks at her. “Stealing a cookie,” she says lightly, hoping it doesn’t sound as forced as it is.

“Go for it,” he says, turning away to serve the next customer. “See you in fifteen.”

And then she’s out of reasons not to go to the corner table. Out of reasons to not start her break, to not slip into a chair she’s slipped into perfectly fine, perfectly unaware, every other time Max has come by.

She breathes out, balances a turkey-cookie on top of her cup and goes.

Max—

 _Maks_ has his head tilted down, but he looks up when she approaches, his smile quick and easy and Ellie’s hands are shaking, but she smiles back, hoping there’s no shaking, stutter, weakness on her face.

“Brought you a cookie,” she says, slipping into the seat. “Turkey— or well, it’s shortbread, but Turkey shaped. Not like a _turkey_ cookie, you know. Just shaped. For Thanksgiving.”

She blinks, feels her soul crumple, just a little, at her own words.

Maks laughs, his eyebrows tilting up. But he reaches for the cookie balanced on the lid of her tea, nodding at the brown and red shaped lump of an animal before snapping it in half and sliding one chunk to her.

“S’good,” he says, around a bite. “You’re pretty good at baking, hm? Every time I come in there’s something you’ve made in here.”

Ellie shrugs, trying to relax, to convince herself that he’s not who Nico said he was, but the image of him in those photos, that mugshot, the puff of cigarette smoke caught on film—

“I just follow the recipes,” she says, searching for something not so stupid to say. “I mean, the owners picked everything, you know. I just…” she trails off, thumbing the sleeve on her cup. “Bake.”

“Still, better than most. Last time I tried to cook I think I burnt water.”

Ellie laughs, caught by the idea of it, before biting her cheek and trying to think of anything else but his face in those photos; anything other than Nico’s face, his words— _That man is dangerous. You need to stay away from him._

She sees it now, what Illyana meant, the colour of Maksim’s hair is so close to hers, his eyes the same cold-touched blue, like ice crawling across a clear lake.

She wonders if Nico’s noticed that they all share the same eyes.

Probably, she thinks, he doesn’t seem to miss a lot.

Ellie picks at the sleeve wrapped around her cup, letting the heat seep into her pinky finger, pressed lightly against the side of it.

_You know the stories, of course? The stereotypes? The Russian criminals, tattoos, drugs, violence? It’s all quite popular in film?_

Ellie glances at his hands, one wrapped around his own coffee cup, his fingers thick and rough, nails short and blunt. He’s wearing a black v-necked sweater, the sleeves sitting low on his wrists, but she’s seen him with his sleeves rolled and she knows, she swears— there are no tattoos, no ink, no traces of the things that Illyana mentioned.

_The real-life versions are much, much worse, darling. I promise you._

 “Any plans for Thanksgiving?” Ellie asks, tearing her eyes away from his hand and wrist.

It’s not him, she tells herself, it can’t be. There’s no way that man in the photos is this man in front of her. He—

He can’t be.

Why would he be here with her? Why would he care who Nico is?

Why would Nico know someone like Maksim Zhurov well enough for the man to care about his daughter?

Maks looks at her, his smile crooked and easy as he shifts in his seat, popping the lid off his take-out cup; they both watch the steam rise, slow and winding, from the black coffee.

The Roastery is quiet but filled with warmth and low music, low chatter as she watches him pull the napkin out from beneath his turkey-cookie and dip the paper into his coffee.

“I was hoping to see my sister,” he says, as the rich brown crawls up the napkin, soaking it through. “We haven’t seen each other in… well, decades now. Never got the chance to meet her family.”

Her heart jumps in her chest, but she holds herself still, pressing her pinky harder against the heat of her cup, the sting of it keeping her grounded, stuck in the moment. Feeling like the slow crawl of coffee soaking up into his napkin is the steady rising pulse of her insides, higher and higher, darker and darker—

Ellie’s eyes flick to his face, but he looks exactly like he did before, exactly like he has every time he’s come to see her. It’s still just _Max._

 “How come?” she forces out, hating the too quiet pitch of it as it slips out of her chest.

Maksim pulls the napkin up, gathering it in his palm, it drips, once, rippling inside his cup before he pushes the cup to the side.

Ellie tears her eyes away from his face, to where he lays his hand flat against the table top—

“Your smile is different, _kotenok_ , when you’re nervous,” he says quietly, voice pitched lower, rough edged, but his crooked smile still stuck in place. “You should practice that if you want to be a good liar.”

Ellie’s heart stutters, but she’s stuck in her seat, her eyes darting down as he brings the wet, coffee-tinged napkin down against the back of his hand, rubbing it along the back of his fingers, over the knuckle, just onto the first joint.

Peach-tinted colour smears on his skin and on the napkin, and there’s ink beneath, dark and cloudy, clearing every time he rubs the napkin over the same spot.

Ellie tears her eyes away from his hand, as he moves on to his middle finger, another dark letter emerging in a smearing mess of peach.

Maksim watches her, his lips quirked, eyes bright, searching her face. “I’m not sure if I’m surprised he told you, or disappointed.”

The air feels thin, her chest too tight, but Ellie pulls in too shallow breaths and chokes out, “I don’t kn—”

Maksim _tchs,_ his tongue making a sharp sound against his palate, dipping the napkin back in his coffee and continuing on. It has to be hot, she thinks, but he keeps rubbing, pulling up more ink along his fingers, the back of his hand in peachy smears more clear every time he pulls the napkin over his skin.

“This is what you were looking for, no?” he asks, watching her face as she looks down at the ink emerging on his skin, tapping one long finger on the table-top. Black shapes, letters maybe, just above each knuckle, a slowly shaping image on the back of his hand.

Ellie bites her cheek, her heart pounding, her voice stuck in her throat.

“You know, in my country these mean something. To have them… there’s respect in the ink. But here…” he trails off. “Here they’re just ink.”

Ellie swallows, forces her mouth to open. “Why are you here?”

“What’d he tell you about me, kotenok? Did he warn you? Try to scare you off?”

Ellie says nothing, watching the black ink on his hand, interwoven symbols and letters, she thinks, Russian.

“Or did he tell you nothing,” he wonders quietly. “Just enough to keep you afraid?”

“He said you’re a liar,” she forces out, eyes flicking up to his, swallowing the dryness in her throat. “ _Max_.”

“ _I’m a liar?_ ” He laughs, quick and sharp, dropping the napkin on the table, laying both his hands flat and leaning a little closer to her across the small table; his voice low, tinged with something entertained, something pleased, crinkled in the corner of his eyes. “You’re not as scared as I expected.”

Ellie blinks, because she is scared, she’s scared of him, of what he means, of the truth of Nico’s words—

“I am,” she says, looking down at his hand, back up to his face. “But we’re in the middle of a coffee shop, everyone knows your face, you can’t—”

He tilts his head, his smile sharper. “Oh, kotenok, I _could_.”

Ellie’s hand tightens on her cup, but she can’t move; watches the man across from her, their eyes locked. Her heart beats so hard inside her chest it feels like it’s trying to break through her bones, her palms sweaty, a tremble building in her body, shaking out along her limbs.

His teeth are white and straight, his laugh lines deep, the ink on his hand is jarring and she wonders just how much more is on him. His eyes flick down, following her focus.

“It’s a pain hiding them, but Americans can be so quick to judge a man, just by what’s on his skin.”

Ellie says nothing, trying to keep her breathing quiet, wondering if she should run. (A sudden image of Nico in the dark, a gun in his hand, offering it to her.)

Does Zhurov have a gun?

_Oh, kotenok, I could—_

What does that even mean, she thinks, her pulse ticking higher, chest shifting sharply as she pulls in too thin air.

And Maksim Zhurov sits there, watching her, his tattooed hand between them, so at ease it grates at her.

“You ever wonder why he knows about me?”

Ellie says nothing, staying so still her bones feel like lead, weighing her down.

“Why he cares I’m here?”

“You’re his uncle,” she says slowly, the connecting lines between her and him falling into place. “Illyana—”

His smile catches, just a little, a flinch of a frown. “Ran off when I was fifteen.”

“She said she had to.”   

He shrugs, sitting straighter in his seat, his eyes flicking over her shoulder and back to her. “She whored herself out to an Italian, she knew what she was choosing.”

Ellie grits her teeth, thinking about how Illyana looks at Nico, at her son, _Kolya—_

“She wanted to keep her child.”

He shrugs again, like it doesn’t matter, picking up his turkey cookie and taking a bite. “She should’ve thought about that before fucking an Italian.”

Ellie’s lip curls, but before she can say anything, he continues, taking another bite of the cookie, speaking around a mouthful.

“Still, you never did answer. You wonder why he cares I’m here?” he asks, watching her, one elbow on the table, cookie loose in his fingers, the half wiped clean tattooed hand stark in her eyesight, drawing her gaze. “Why he cares I’m talking to you?”

“He said you’re dangerous. A—” she looks down at his hand, the ink stark against his skin. “A criminal.”

Maks says nothing, chewing on the turkey cookie, the colours bright, cartoon-ish, so out of place it's jarring; she itches to smack it out of his hand, to hit him—

“Tell me,” he says, slowly. “You ever wonder how he lives like he does?”

Ellie frowns, confused by the question. “He owns—”

He snorts. “You think a man can live like he does owning some clubs?”

Ellie thinks about Nico, his clothes, his cars, his loft—

“He’s a businessman,” she says tightly, but hears her own voice in her head: _He’s not just a businessman, is he?_

“Is he?” he asks. “You think that club of his is just a dance club?”

Ellie scoffs, moving to stand, but Maks’ hand grabs her wrist. His hand tight, iron-hard as he looks at her, his eyes sharper, colder.

“You think he’s not a liar, kotenok, just like me?”

There’s a noise at the front of the coffee shop, the bell ringing above the door, high and loud, followed by a bang—

 “Tell me,” he says slowly, his eyes holding her, her eyes, her father’s eyes, her grandmother’s eyes. “Do you call him Daddy when he fucks you?”

Ellie sucks in a breath even as she’s being tugged backwards, as there’s a squeal—

But it’s just her chair, being yanked away from the table, a hand on her arm, closing tight around it, hauling her up and back to tug her back into a hard chest in a jolting, world spinning yank.

Sergei stands, a mountain of anger, hard muscle and dark clothes; face twisted in rage behind her, tugging her to stand behind him.

Maks sits back, his hands held out in front of his chest, palms flat and white, the ink hidden on the other side, looking so fucking  _normal_ but for the smirk tilting across his mouth as he leans back in his chair.

There’s no sound but the music above them, like time froze, Sergei beside her, his hand iron on her arm, Maks in front of her, the Roastery caught, a fracturing splinter of time—

Every eye, every face, turned towards them.

 

 _Have yourself a merry little Christmas_  
Let your heart be light  
From now on your troubles will be out of sight

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	20. Part Two, V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, okay, this chapter is a bit of a ride and I'm pretty sure it killed me a little bit ngl. Hopefully everybody enjoys the roller coaster this chapter is!
> 
> Trying a new thing with the translation for other languages, hopefully it works!

 

 

* * *

 Part Two, IV

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 _Have yourself a merry little Christmas_  
Let your heart be light  
From now on your troubles will be out of sight

 

                The world spins, blurs into colours and one high, sharp scream of a noise breaking over the music filling the Roastery. She’s tugged by her wrist, jolted the rest of the way up from her seat, out of Maks’ grip, and shoved behind the bulk of another body.

It’s _Sergei_ , she realises, as the world refocuses, slows out of the blur of warm colours around her and into a back, thick with muscle beneath a black suit jacket. He looks at her, once, just like he’s making sure she’s in one piece.

“Sergei _,[ya tak rada tebya vide](https://imgur.com/nfW8esb)t_ ,” Maksim says with a smile, his eyes crinkling, his teeth white, shining in the soft-glow of the Roastery’s low-hanging lights.

Sergei says nothing, his hand tightens on Ellie’s arm, forcing her behind him more. Ellie hovers, just behind his body, his arm twisted back, bruising on her forearm, trying to hold her behind him as she leans around him to see Maksim.

 _“[Promolvish' yeshche odno slovo, i ty – mertvets](https://imgur.com/S8vpLxR),_ ” Sergei growls, his hand tensing on Ellie’s arm as he takes a step back, she can’t see his other arm, but it’s tucked somewhere in front of his body. He’s too wide to see around, leaving her in his shadow, only catching glimpses of Maks from her tilt around Sergei’s arm.

Maks laughs, his hands falling before Sergei’s shoulders shift, body tensing and Maks lifts them, palm up again, his face twisting into something like, _calm down._

“Ah,” he _tsks_ , his tongue. “What is it the girl said? _But we’re in the middle of a coffee shop._ ” He tilts his head, eyes flicking over the room. “What a scene it would be.”

“[ _Vstat_](https://imgur.com/nXU4r7h),” Sergei hisses, but his back tenses more, his hand tight enough to make Ellie wince.

Maksim shrugs, unconcerned. “You get the girl or you get me, Sergei, not both. [_Ne bez kto-to zdes' umirayushchiy_](https://imgur.com/5JTgH7p).”

“Ellie—” she hears behind her, and the sound of her name brings her back to where she is; she blinks, turning in Sergei’s grip and seeing Andie at the counter, her phone in her hand, her eyes wide, her mouth parted. Out of the corner of her eye, Caleb rounds the far side of the counter. “Should I—”

Ellie darts a glance over the coffee shop, most of them are staring, others are sneaking glances, phones in their hand and texting, or whispering to the person they’re sitting with.

She hopes to God no one’s recording.

Ellie shakes her head, looking between Caleb and Andie, her heart pounding. “No, I—don’t.”

Sergei’s hand loosens, his voice low like he’s remembering where they are just the same as she is, but he doesn’t turn to look at her; his fingers creak off her wrist like he isn’t entirely sure he wants to. “To the backroom, go.”

Ellie hesitates, her eyes darting to Maksim, who smiles at her, quick and friendly and so familiar it’s an insult all on its own. Ellie scowls at him, wanting to scream at him, throw that hot coffee on him and ask him _why, why are you here?_

“Go on, kotenok.”

“[ _Zatknis_](https://imgur.com/rjfEPv5),” Sergei growls, his hand moving from her arm to the chair, leaning closer, body heavy and broad and more than a little imposing. She doesn’t even think Maks is a small man, knows how tall he is next to her, standing in that gallery the first time they met, but Sergei takes up more space, a bulky width of black  in the midst of the colours in the Roastery around them.

She edges away, Caleb watches from the edge of the front counter, his eyes darting between her and the two men at the corner table, his face full of _what the fuck is going on._

“ _Vstat_.” Sergei orders again, though Ellie can only guess what it means as he tilts his head towards the front door.

Maksim stands slowly, his eyes flicking to Ellie as she nears the swinging door, his smile fades to a smirk as he lifts the other half of the turkey cookie to his mouth, taking a bite as he steps around Sergei.

She wants to choke him with it, because she was nice to him when all he— but it was a lie, wasn’t it? He was never that lonely tourist, never that single man looking for an apartment. He came because he knows who her father is. Because some how he knows—

Oh God, she thinks, her stomach twisting, her heart tripping as a cold-tipped dagger of realisation travels through her.

_Do you call him daddy when he fucks you?_

How does he _know_? How did he— did he see them?

 _It’s a lie,_ she thinks, it has to be, there’s no way he could have seen them, no way he could know for sure…

Ellie’s mind trips back through days as quickly as her heart pounds, the car lunches, the first not-date— Aura and dancing…was it there? Her on Nico’s lap, wanting to dance with him…

 _He’s dangerous,_ her mind tells her. _They told you. He’s dangerous. How many times do you have to hear it? He’s lied to you from the beginning, what makes you think it’s any different now?_

_How many more times do you need to be told who he is?_

_Once more,_ she thinks, needed to see it herself, to see him, hear him, tattooed and smirking, tattooed and uncaring, tattooed and not the man who told her he was a little lonely, all alone in the big city.

 _He was never that man,_ she reminds herself. Nothing more than an image, a lie, a well-crafted suit pulled on to please the eye.

Ellie hesitates at the door, Caleb taking a step back from the counter edge to let her by, looking back at her, his brows sunk sharply together.

Andie looks at her from where she’s been rooted in front of the register, her hand tight on her phone before she glances back at the two men in the front of the store.

“[ _Yesli vy umny, vy pokidayete stranu, prezhde chem on naydet vas_](https://imgur.com/VsZgFys),” Sergei warns, barely any louder than the music as Maksim walks backwards to the door, chewing on that stupid, brightly coloured cookie; his eyes dart to Ellie’s; he grins and _winks_ , turning just as he reaches the doors.

The chime rings clear and light, far too cheerful for the moment as she watches the width of his shoulders slip out the front door, watches him through the glass as a car pulls up outside the windows, the headlights cutting through the darkness of the city outside of the bright, coffee-tinted warmth of the Roastery.

It’s snowing, she realises, little fat flakes as the car curves up to the curb and Maks climbs in.

“Should we call the police?” Andie asks from somewhere far away.

Ellie blinks, looking over at the older girl, who’s looking at Sergei, her phone still tight in her hand. She thinks, why the _fuck_ is she asking Sergei that… but then, in the moment, who do you ask that question to other than the overly-large man that just pulled a very small girl away from another man?

Sergei shakes his head, “No,” he says roughly and when he reaches into his jacket Ellie has a split second vision of Nico in the dark, those straps around his shoulders, that gun in the dark— and her heart is in her throat—

But he pulls out something gold and black and it sits in his palm; Andie looks down at it and eases at the sight of it, her fingers relaxing their grip on her phone. And like her ease ripples outwards—

The Roastery comes back to life. All at once, Frank Sinatra sings about coming home for the holidays and the voices swell into a sudden, humming, buzzing current of whispers. Or maybe they were always there and Ellie was just too focused on the two men and her own heartbeat to notice them.

And Sergei turns, looking towards the back of the coffee shop and when his eyes land on her he scowls. “ _Backroom._ ”

Ellie stumbles a step backwards, surprised by the anger on Sergei’s face, turning to push through the door just as he starts her way. Caleb’s hand darts out, his voice low and urgent. “You know him?”

Ellie licks her lips, nodding. “He’s…yeah. Works for my— uh, my dad.”

“You’ve never mentioned—” Caleb says, but then Sergei is at their backs and his hand lands wide on the swing door, pushing it open, his palm on her shoulder, cutting his dark eyes at Caleb.

“Back to work, boy.”

Caleb frowns but steps back, letting Sergei nudge Ellie through the doorway, the door swinging behind them. Caleb stands there, appearing and disappearing in the swing of the door, shaking his head and heading back around the counter, looking confused as he steps up to Andie, who meets Ellie’s eyes in the swing before the door slows, stops and shuts them out.

“That boy, likes you?”

Ellie blinks at the question, but Sergei is urging her down the small hallway that leads from the kitchen to the bathroom and employee lockers. Pushing her into one of the chairs before crouching in front of her.

Ellie wonders what the fuck these men drink, because they’re all so fucking _big_.

“What?”

“That boy? Crush?” Sergei says roughly, lifting her arm, the one he was grabbing, the same Maks had taken hold of.

Ellie shakes her head, confused. “No, he’s— why does it matter?”

“Asking.” He shrugs, eyes flicking to hers, still waiting for an answer.

“No, he’s got a boyfriend.”

Sergei makes a considering face. “Ah, good.”

She has no idea what she’s supposed to say to that. Sergei turns her arm, wrist up, wrist down, before standing. “Okay? Touch you anywhere else?”

Ellie shakes her head, craning her neck back to look up at him. _Seriously,_ she thinks _, fuck her height._

Sergei pulls out his phone, types something in, stares at the screen, his mouth tight, dark brows sunk together before he pockets it again and looks at her.

“Kolya will want to see you,” he says slowly, quietly, like he’s watching her reaction to his words.

Ellie’s hand curls around her sore wrist and the quiet gets heavier. A weird fracture of a moment, like spinning too long and stumbling dizzily, trying to figure out where you ended up in the blur of the world around you.

“You call him Kolya?”

Sergei nods.

Ellie waits, looking up at him, wanting more but not really knowing what to say.

“Nico is dumb name,” he states, his voice low and flat.

 _Dumb—_ Ellie blinks, her lips twitch and she laughs, sharp and sudden before biting it back, the sound loud in the small backroom.

Sergei’s lips twitch and he shrugs, turning to slump on the chair next to her, looking far too big for it.

“ _Nikolai_ ,” he starts, looking out over the employee lockers, the door to the bathroom, the hallway back to the kitchen before he looks back at her. “Is a good name. Russian. Kolya… fits him more, yes?”

“He’s kinda half and half though,” Ellie says, looking at the shadow of red still on her wrist, a bruise forming. “Italian and Russian, right?”

 “It is what they say.”

“Who says?” Ellie frowns, twisting her neck to look up at him. There’s a scar on his neck, a white line that edges from nearly the top of his spine to just under his ear.

“People.”

Ellie huffs, turning away from him. “What people?”

Sergei shakes his head, muttering in Russian. “Other people.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, blowing out a breath. The noise from the coffee shop invades their quiet corner, and Ellie remembers she’s supposed to be working but can’t really make herself move. Or care. Her mind rolling through images, words she can’t understand, tattoos, Sergei, Andie’s face stripped of colour—

“What did you show Andie to stop her from calling the cops?”

Sergei stretches a leg out, his thigh thick with muscle and she wonders just where the fuck Nico found someone _thicker_ than him—

Well, Russia, apparently.

Sergei reaches into his pocket, pulling out a gold thing that looks small in his palm.

“You’re a _cop?_ ” Her mouth drops open staring at the badge in his hand.

Sergei squints at her, passing it to her. “If anyone asks, yes.”

Ellie blinks. “But you—” she cuts off, looking at the badge, how real it feels. “You’re not?”

“Only on paper.”

 _On paper?_ Ellie thinks, her mind trying to string together the badge, the _on paper,_ the _if anyone asks…_ her stomach tightens because Sergei works for Nico, she knows he does. He sits in that black SUV outside the Roastery because its his _job_ to watch her.

That’s why he’s here now, isn’t it? She saw him on the way into work, or the SUV at least, the tinted windows hiding the man inside. Knew he must have been watching—

“Why didn’t you come in sooner? When Max— Maksim showed up?”

Sergei takes the badge back, stretching his leg out again to shove it back into his pocket. He rubs his thigh, one thick-fingered hand down the length, something unsure, nervous even, in the gesture.

“You should ask Kolya these things,” he mutters before standing. “We should go now.”

“I’m asking you,” Ellie insists, looking up at him, tongue darting out to wet her lips, feels nervous too, like she’s on a cliff edge, right at a precipice and staring down… something dark. Unknown.

An answer to all the questions she’s been asking herself, all the pieces of a man she knows and yes, is terrified she doesn’t really know at all.

_He isn’t just a businessman, is he?_

Sergei’s fingers tap the side of his thigh, his jaw tensing. “Orders,” he cuts out, short and flat. “No movement until necessary. If he does not make move, then no need to—” he falters, “To— _blyad—_ warn? Alert.”

“How did you see what he was doing?” Ellie frowns, thinking to the where they were seated, to where Sergei was parked across the street.

He winces, a little, barely noticeable twitch, shoving his hands in his pockets, which look stretched and too small for his hands. “Ask Kolya. Please, we should… he will want to see you.”

“But I’m fine,” Ellie blinks, because she suddenly is not at all prepared to face Nico. Not at all prepared to get an answer to the question of _he isn’t just a businessman, is he?_

“Nothing happened. I mean, he’s not going to come back now, right? He knows I know. I mean, not that I know why the fuck he was here anyway, but he isn’t going to come _back?_ ” She blinks up at Sergei. “Right?”

“Should talk to K—”

“I’m asking you!” Ellie pushes to her feet, stepping closer to Sergei and she isn’t surprised when he doesn’t flinch at all, just looks down at her, dark-eyed and deceptively calm. “Do you think he’ll come back?”

Sergei shakes his head. “Won’t let him.”

“Why was he here at all?”

“Family.”

“I’m barely _family!_ ” Ellie yells, bites her cheek, the pitch of her voice louder than she expects, crosses her arms and shakes her head as she forces herself to step away. “I’m not— I’m not a Cordova.”

Sergei shakes his head, moving to her locker, Ellie isn’t sure she wants to know how he knows where it is. He pulls out her bag and shoulders it, or tries to, it hangs, too small from his forearm while he holds her coat up and open for her to step into.

Ellie stares at him, feeling something weirdly anxious, strung-tight, _sad_ inside of her as she sighs, meeting his eyes before she steps, turns and lets him hold it open while she pushes her arms through the sleeves.

“Different kinds of family,” Sergei says when she turns around. “Names are— _nichto._ Nothing. _”_

 

 

                Ellie isn’t so sure that they’re nothing, if names were nothing, than _Nico_ wouldn’t be _Kolya_. Nicolas wouldn’t be _Nico._ If names were nothing, _Peanut_ wouldn’t be a warm little part of her childhood compared to just Ellie. _Baby_ , wouldn’t sound so sweet. _Daddy_ —

Words, _names_ … they mean something.

If they hadn’t—

If they hadn’t, the blue scrawl of _Nicolas Cordova_ on the back of an old photo wouldn’t have meant anything to her.

               

 

                It’s not until they’re in the car, the late November night filling with the first snow of the year, the windshield wipers squeaking across the glass, that she speaks again.

“You know him, don’t you? Maks.”

Sergei’s quiet, Ellie watches the snow melt on the window, about to ask him again when he speaks. “…yes.”

 _How,_ she wants to ask, _why?_   “Because of Nico?”

 _What’s he involved in,_ she aches to scream it, to just get it fucking _out_. _What kind of businessman knows someone like this? What kind of family are they to be connected to a man like this?_

 _You told me was a good man,_ she wants to cry but bites her tongue, waiting for him to answer her.

Sergei shakes his head, a little barely-there movement. He taps his finger on the wheel, going quiet again before he speaks. Ellie wonders if it’s because of his English, if it’s him pulling sentences together before he speaks them, or if he just doesn’t want to tell her.

“I worked for him, long time ago.”

Ellie’s mouth opens, shuts, her brows sinking together. “You _worked_ for him? But I thought—”

Sergei rubs a hand over his chest, a twitch of a movement like he couldn’t stop himself. “Before I came to America. We— I didn’t have much. Zhurov paid. Thought money worth more back then.”

“More than what?” Ellie frowns, but she thinks she already knows the answer. Nico behind her eyes saying: _I’d empty my fucking bank account for you._

“Family.”

 They go quiet, Ellie watches the flurries, the blur of the city lights, the slow stroke of the wipers almost lulling in the mix of warmed seats and hot air blowing through the vents. They’re heading south through the city she realises, wondering where exactly he’s taking her before Sergei speaks, breaking the thick quiet.

“Why… you come looking for him?”

 _Him_. Ellie doesn’t have to guess who he’s talking about. She’s only ever gone looking for one man. Found him in the dark of a club, the beat of her pulse in time with the beat of the bass; his eyes, the only thing that mattered. Found him in a breathless moment and hasn’t surfaced since.

 “I don’t know,” she says, eventually, too quiet, too unsure of how to put all of it into words; seeing Nico and nothing else even as she feels Sergei’s eyes on her, moving between her and the road. “Family, I guess.”

 

 

 

 

 

                When they end up on a familiar street, Ellie is somehow surprised and not at all surprised when she sees Elysium come out of the snowy blur of the city ahead. There’s no line up tonight, but the bouncers are there letting people in and, with a glance at the clock, it’s only just past nine.

But when Sergei drives past the front of Elysium, she turns to look at him, confused about where they’re going.

“Are we not…” Ellie asks, frowning, looking back towards the club.

Sergei mumbles something she can’t make out, but he’s passing another street and then turning on the next, a dark black building that doesn’t have any signs on it at all. Down the length of it, the side street quiet until he’s pulling up to the one matte-black door. The only door in the side of the building.

She isn’t sure why, but that cliff-edge crumbles a little more, that feeling in her stomach twists tighter, the one that sounds like Maksim’s voice,

 _You think he’s not a liar, kote_ n _ok, just like me?_

_You think that club of his is just a dance club?_

Everything she’s thought about Elysium, every worry about what he does here, why he owns it, what he does—

The snow falls and Ellie looks at that one matte-black door and sets a hand on the car door handle—

“ _Nyet_.” Sergei’s hand touches her arm, closing around it quickly. “Wait.”

“Why?” Ellie snaps, because she’s here now, there’s no denying it, no avoiding it.

Her— Nico’s inside and she’s out here and all the things she’s thought about this place, about him owning it, about what he does when she’s not around—

She needs to go in, to see for herself, needs to see it all for _herself,_ because hearing it, hearing _he’s dangerous, Ellie,_ and _the real-life versions are much, much worse—_

_You think he’s not a liar, kotenok, just like me?_

Because people keep _telling_ her these things like she should understand, should piece a whole picture together just in her mind… but she’s never been good at that. Needs to see it, to touch it, to sink herself inside it to understand it.

(The name of a man was good, a photo of him, even better… but seeing him, meeting him…)

“I want to go inside and talk to Nico,” she says, trying to keep herself calm, even though she feels strung tight and outside of herself all at once. Like she’s watching herself, understanding what’s happening even as she’s so lost, tangled up in the pieces that she doesn’t understand anything at all. “I want to talk to him, he’s here, isn’t he? This is still Elysium?”

Sergei nods.

Ellie bites her tongue, something cold and terrified and sad burning up inside of her as she chokes out, “Is it what they say it is?”

Sergei looks at her, the car rumbling between them, still blowing hot air, the wipers scraping across the glass, whoop _whoop,_ whoop _whoop,_ whoop _whoop._

“Yes.”

Ellie nods. “Is he here a lot?”

 _Say no,_ she thinks, _say_ _no_.

Sergei watches her, his face shadowed, just outside of the light that spills across Ellie’s lap from the light above that one matte-black door.

“Not for—” he cuts off, his jaw flexing as he pulls the keys out of the ignition. “I’m going to call him, he will come to see you.”

 “Before telling him what? That Max is officially Maksim now?” she snipes, gritting her teeth. “That he knows I’m my father’s daughter?”

_That either he knows we’re fucking or he was lying just to get a reaction out of me? To scare me?_

Sergei frowns. “Was he not always?”

Ellie shrugs, shifting back in her seat, turning away from Sergei and looking back at the door, staring at the snow fluttering down in front of the one light above it. “I was kinda hoping you guys were wrong, not gonna lie.”

Sergei snorts beside her, like he’s torn between finding it funny and completely fucking stupid the way she does. “Just…” he trails off, watching her in the streetlight lining the quiet backstreet. “A moment.”

Before she can say anything else, Sergei steps out of the car, the door shutting with a quiet thud as she watches him step out into the snow, lifting his phone to his ear.

She can’t make any noises out, everything dulled, distant in the quiet of the car. Snow lands on Sergei’s black jacket and melts away, his breath puffing out of his mouth as his lips move.

The cold creaks into the car in inches.

Snow builds up on the windshield, blurring Sergei as he stops talking, he turns to lean against the front passenger side, scrubbing a hand over the back of his head, his breath puffing out long and white.

Ellie’s mind is strangely blank for a brief, too-quiet moment.

She shivers.

She’s about to knock on the window, or climb out, when there’s a click and that black door swings open. A bouncer steps out as Nico, his shirt half-unbuttoned and breath white-tipped, looks at Sergei and then the tinted window right where Ellie is.

Ellie reaches for the handle as Nico does, and he’s jerking it open, the handle tugging from her hand. He stands in front of the car door, his hand on inside of the door, the other on the side of the car by her head, looking in at her, his face shadowed, impossible to read.

Neither one of them says anything.

“Are you alright?” he asks, but its rough, low-pitched, like he’s grinding his teeth, his breath puffing heavier in between them.

He smells like soap, Ellie watches a trail of water slink out of his wet hair and slink down the tense vein in his neck, over the swell of his chest, soak into the half-buttoned white of a starched dress-shirt.

_Why is he wet?_

When Nico reaches out for her, Ellie leans back, something climbing hot and scared in her throat. His hand lingers between them and _something_ crawls across his face, sinks into his eyes…

But all Ellie can see is the wet shine of his hair, the soap smell in the cold air, how he’s breathing a little too hard and it rings in her head, _You think that club of his is just a dance club?_

 _It’s apparently named for it,_ Ethan had said, _Elysium, you know. It means like, happiness or something._

“What were you doing in there?”

Sergei’s head twists to her at her voice, she sees it in the corner of her eyes, but her focus is on Nico, on the confusion between his eyebrows, his eyes dark but moving over her face like he can find her meaning, understand her better for all the things she doesn’t ask, just by _looking_.

And then he breathes out, a rough, unsteady exhale, and looks away; in the glow of the light behind him, it’s hard to see anything, his face angles and shadows, a tensing jaw, a shadowed thick tendon in his neck. A sheen to his clavicle, the sharp shadow beneath his throat, shifting Adam’s apple.

_Elysium, it’s apparently named for it, you know?_

_The front for dancing, the back for—_

His voice is hollow and deep when he speaks. “What do you think I do in there?”

She doesn’t have to say it, they both know. He saw it in her face that day in the parking garage, saw it that night he came back from this exact place and asked him to trust her… sees it now, in the few feet that separate them, the car tense with it.

And still, all she can smell is fucking _soap_.

Sergei frowns, looking between them, Ellie can just see him through the angle of space between the car door and the side of the windshield.

“Do you really think that, Ellie?” His eyes are too dark, his voice too low, just white-air and shadows between them.

Ellie’s heart cracks, just a little at how it sounds, so quiet, so dark, his hand white-knuckled on the doorframe. She shivers, the cold pushing at her skin, snow twisting into something blurry as her eyes water.

“I don’t know,” she creaks out, feels it slip out like something dying, because he asked her once if she trusted him and she said she didn’t know, and she wants to, she desperately wants to say she does but—

She doesn’t know.

“Should go inside,” Sergei says, somewhere distant and far away, like he’s miles and miles apart from them. “Not safe.”

Nico ignores him, focused on Ellie in front of him.

“You think I’m fucking somebody else.”

He says it so easily, like Sergei isn’t standing right there. Like it’s not something meant for the dark, meant only to be whispered behind locked doors. Like it isn’t that weight she carries inside her every day.

It’s not even a question at all, just flat, like he’s stating it, just trying to understand it. Testing the sound of it, making it real.

Ellie trembles from the cold, from her nerves, from that spiking, angry, _guilty_ feeling— because she doesn’t know. She _doesn’t_ _fucking_ _know—_

“You’re always here,” she whispers tightly, swallowing something sharp and hot. “You didn’t want me to come here— didn’t want me to go i—”

“Get out of the car,” he growls, pushing away from the door and stepping back; no question in his voice, just a command, an order.

Ellie bristles, eyes burning even as she clenches her teeth, but slides over the seat and hops out of the SUV into the white-covered ground on weak legs.

She sniffs, once, and it makes her burn in embarrassment, makes her angrier, makes her _violent._ Wants to scream at him, shove him… would rather they fight like that day in the parking garage than this too-quiet weight of silence between them.

But, she can’t bring herself to look up at his face. Too afraid of what’s on it. Too torn up about admitting her fears so clumsily, things she never said to anyone, never really let herself focus on because it always left her feeling sick.

That he’s her first _real_ thing and she has no idea just what number she is to him. That he’s her fucking _dad_ and she’s… she’s so fucked up over him that she can’t _think, breath, imagine_ what she would do if he was—

If she’s not _enough_ for him.

“Kolya,” Sergei says from that distant place he is, even though he’s no more than a few feet from her. “[Ona napugana](https://imgur.com/PB7OId3).”

“[ _Idi i poluchi mne video_ ,](https://imgur.com/qY7owCI)” Nico growls, the Russian sharp and rough as his hand lands on Ellie’s shoulder, pushing her towards the door, staying close at her back. “I want to see it.”

Sergei nods, turning away, his eyes meeting Ellie’s only briefly before the black door swings open again and the bouncer, _no,_ she thinks, _security guard_ , dark-suited, an earpiece in his ear, no smile on his face, holds the door open for them, not looking at her at all.

“Boss,” he says, as Nico urges her into the building, guiding her with his hand.

It’s not comforting, not calming, just his hand on her coat covered shoulder, pushing her into a dark hallway.

Not dark, she thinks, soft. Brick walls with glowing, orange lights set right into them. Square lights in the ceiling every few feet, nothing more than a soft tint to them to light the way down the long hallway.

There’s an echo of something ahead, music, maybe, voices as they walk. As Nico stays silent behind her, his hand on her shoulder to keep her moving. They pass a few doorways in silence, the same matte black doors as the one they came through, no doorknobs on any of them.

And then, suddenly, Nico’s hand tightens, slips off her shoulder and down the back of her arm, his fingers pushing against hers, curving his larger hand around it to hold it.

Ellie thinks about pulling away, thinks about yanking her hand out of his, about walking away from him, about yelling at him—

But then the sound of footsteps hit her ears, echoing along the hallway ahead and getting closer as Nico steps up beside her, brackets her between his body and the wall. Ellie looks up at him, but all she gets is the thick of his arm beneath his white button-up, his profile, looking straight ahead.

She tears her eyes away slowly, because there’s something on Nico’s face, something empty, but not in that way she’s used to, not the one that’s controlled, careful, emotionally quiet, this one is… _cold._

A man comes towards them, whip-cord thin, his suit jacket open, the shirt beneath, splayed. A glint of gold along the side of his neck.

“Nicolas, I didn’t think you were here tonight,” he says as he approaches them, his tone friendly, looking at Nico, then at her, and then… then he smiles and Ellie’s hand flinches tighter around Nico’s.

The man’s teeth glint in the soft lights, white, perfect, _sharp;_ it carves deeper lines into his face, laughs lines, wrinkles, like the sharpness of his smile has cut him every time he forces his mouth to do it. His eyes sink to Ellie, and even in the soft light, even in warm tint, there’s something predatory in them.

“New girl?” he asks, still looking at Ellie while he lifts his hand to Nico.

“No,” Nico says, and his hand tightens around hers even as he lifts his other hand, giving the man a steady, easy sort of handshake. “Not yet.”

Ellie blinks, Nico’s thumb strokes over her knuckles.

The man looks her over and it’s hard not to flinch away, to press into Nico’s side, or sink behind him and out of view. She doesn’t want to look away, feels like she’s staring at an animal and looking away will leave her open, neck-bared for a pair of teeth.  But she can’t keep her eyes on his, slides her gaze to the wrinkles at the corner of his eye, the sharpness of his cheekbones.

He must see their hands, she thinks, must see Nico pressed into her side, must see—

“Not sure if she’s got what it takes.”

_What it takes?_

Nico thumb rubs, a softness so at odds to the apathy in his voice. Like Ellie is just—

“Oh? I’d be happy to try her out for you.” He grins, Ellie can see it in the way his eyes crinkle, gaze still on her until finally, _finally_ looking back at Nico who _laughs, a_ short, hollow sound that echoes along the hallway. Ellie shivers, gripping Nico’s hand back on reflex, desperate to press into the broad heat of him even now.

“Ah,” Nico says slowly, and she can hear the smile in his voice, even though she can’t bring herself to look up. “Can’t do that. It’s the one perk of the job, you know? Benefits of being the boss.”

The man _tsks_ , looking Ellie over again. “That’s too bad. Although, can’t say I wouldn’t do the same.”

Ellie bites her cheek, trembling, the hallway suddenly cold where it felt warm when they first came in; staring hard at the flash of gold just visible along the side of the man’s neck. A necklace maybe.

“Would you like me to call Olivia for you? She’ll make sure you find something new, I know she had some new girls this week.”

The man nods, looking to Ellie again before shaking Nico’s hand one more time. Their hands part and Ellie watches him turn towards the door beside them, tapping a faint black square just where a doorknob would be; a _click,_ and the door opens.

“No, I’ll find my way to her eventually, I’m sure. You’ve never disappointed me yet, but…” He looks back as he steps in to the room, some sort of bathroom, changeroom, maybe, she thinks; marble, a sink, a mirror... “You’ll let me know if you hire her, Nicolas, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

The man grins again, shark-eyed and shark-toothed at Ellie before he steps further the room, the door shutting behind him with a quiet _thunk_ of heavy wood.

Nico’s right  hand stretches out to a tense, strained stretch of his fingers… and eases, curls, white-knuckled into a fist; he pulls in a breath, just one before he starts moving again, his left hand still tight around hers.

Ellie feels herself shivering, but it’s not the cold sort of shiver, but the nervous one; the strung-tight cord being plucked for noise. Anger, confusion, fear, it all bubbles up like a pot ready to boil over, a hiss of steam, a rattling lid… Ellie trembles as she walks and Nico’s hand is the only thing that keeps her moving.

He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t apologise, doesn’t pull away and—

And what?

Comfort her? Tell her this is who he is? Tell her it was all for show? Tell her he’s not what he just pretended to be? That he is? That he—

_Benefits of being the boss, you know?_

Ellie swallows, wants to pull her hand back, but Nico tightens his grip on it like he knows exactly what she’s thinking.

“Wait,” he grits out, like he’s pushing it through his teeth. “Just… wait.”

Ellie swallows the knife of her questions, blowing out a quiet breath and wishing she would stop shaking, wishing the rising warmth of the hallway would ease her more than it is. Ahead of them, the hall opens wider, glows brighter and noises start to climb into something like music, like voices and laughter and… _splashing?_

And weirdly, she thinks she smells… _something._ It’s familiar, but odd, like wet concrete after a summer rain, or the hot, damp wood of a dock the after swimming, baking dry under the sun.

The voices climb, and there’s more music and laughter and conversations; Ellie swears she smells _salt_ , something fragrant but touched by that odd smell... and then they come out into the wide open room, nearly as dark as the hallway but _filled_ with square, glowing turquoise pools.

It’s bigger than she could have expected, warm enough she can feel sweat gathering beneath the layers of her clothes. Nico’s hand tightens as he holds her in the shadow of his body when she tries to tilt around him to get a better look.

“Don’t,” he says roughly, pulling her closer, and Ellie stumbles a little, in the wake of her body bumping his. “Not now.”

She scowls at him, can’t help but glance back as he pulls her along the side of the room. The flickering turquoise light coming up from the pools sends a little more colour over the room, glints off the bodies and the half-naked servers carrying trays of clinking drinks.

There’s one long pool along the far wall and more square ones in front of it, each sectioned off only a little for privacy. It’s gorgeous, atmospheric, something that should be relaxing if it wasn’t being occupied by a few groups of men and scantily-bikinied women.

It’s not what she was expecting, though she isn’t even sure what she was expecting. Black leather and naked women dancing on poles, whips and collars, maybe—

She’s seen shit online, a… a fucking _pool_ was not what she was prepared for.

Nico’s hand tightens to pull her along and they’re splitting off from the main room that continues on into another hallway ahead. He turns at another matte-black door, a security guard already  down another dark hallway, holding it open, nodding once at Nico before they pass him.

Another short hallway and ahead of them, an elevator.

A strangely familiar elevator.

The same one, she thinks, that the bouncer led her to the first night she was in Elysium, looking for a man with a name written on a little scrap of paper. _Nicolas Cordova. Elysium._

First door on the right he passes, second on left, Nico lifts his hand and knocks.

A man opens the door, dressed in black, looking exactly like the security they saw along the way, the same earpiece, tucked into his ear.

“Sir?”

“Take a break,” Nico orders, tilting his head towards the hallway. “Come back in ten.”

The man at the door nods, and inside the room another man stands, pushing up from his chair in front of a bank of computer screens on a long table.

The two men slide by, neither looking once at Ellie, heading down the hallway, but not going much farther than the elevator doors, arms crossing, standing far too much like Sergei did, in the front entrance of Nico’s loft.

Nico pulls her into the room, the door shutting behind him, leaving them in the humming glow of monitors and the lights above; a staggering brightness compared to the hallways.

Nico opens his mouth, but Ellie yanks her arm back, shoving once at his chest, her jaw tight. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Fuck _you,”_ she hisses, hate that her lip wobbles, but Nico says nothing, just looks down at her for a too-long moment before he backs her up towards the table, right into the glow of the monitors and braces his arms on either side of her; leaning into her space, making her tilt back when he comes face to face with her.

Ellie glares at him, but neither one of them say anything, her knuckles white as she grips the table behind her even as her body _itches_ being so close to his. His arms heavy, his eyes dark, his gravity… weighing her down.

When he finally tears his eyes from hers, he lifts a hand and hits a number on the keyboard sitting on the desk right by Ellie’s hand.

Ellie turns her head, twisting in the shadow of Nico’s frame because he doesn’t move away. On the screen there’s a dark room, a brick wall, two people inside and one of them is—

 “Room one, likes to be dominated. Whips, chains, knives… a masochist.”

Ellie stalls, her mind tripping to catch up, to make sense of the man kneeling in the centre of the room, someone moving behind him. Nico looks at her, his eyes weighted, his jaw tight.                                        

A click of a key, the picture changes: an empty room, painted a soft baby-blue.

“This one, a doctor. Likes age-play, but not the way you think. Diapers, bottles, a mommy? Weird shit.”

The next screen. “Judge, likes to dominate men, likes to make them cry. Probably be a good match for room one.”

Another click, another room.

“Room six, lawyer, rape fantasies.”

_Click._

“This one likes—” he cuts off, his voice hard. “He’s never acted on it. Came to me two years ago, promised me he never has and never will. I keep him entertained with people who look younger than they actually are, and if he ever slips one toe out of line… I’ll end him. And he knows it.”

Ellie goes still, staring at the monitor. Trying to makes sense of his words, to keep up, to hear him over the rapid thumping of her heart, the staggering, metal lag of her mind going from the Roastery to Maksim, from Maksim to Nico to a choking, suffocating fear that he isn’t the man she thought he was.

Maksim’s voice echoes in her head, _You think he’s not a liar, kotenok, just like me?_

_Do you call him daddy when he fucks you?_

“And that man in the hall? Would fucking love to get his hands on you. Likes them young and cute and too pretty for their own _fucking good_. To him, to men _like_ him, you’re nothing but another girl, sweetheart. You’re not a daughter, you’re not too young. You’re a piece of meat, a _how much,_ a blank fucking cheque.”

Ellie looks up at him and his anger makes him something _other,_ a body built for a purpose she never really understood; a well-crafted, well-suited _image_ —

 _Nicolas Cordova_ in the middle of a club, the bass beat thumping in time with her heart in her ears.

 _Nicolas_ in the hall, shaking hands with a man like Ellie was exactly what he said she was: _a piece of meat, a how much. A blank fucking cheque._

 “You’re right, Ellie, I don’t want you here. I don’t want you in this building, in this club, on this fucking _street._ ” His eyes glint in the glow of the screens hitting his face, deadly-bright.

Ellie’s bites her cheek, can’t meet his eyes, listening to him and hearing Maks in her head.

_You think he’s not a liar, kotenok, just like me?_

“And you?” Ellie chokes out, eyes finally flicking up to his, forcing herself to look at him, because he _owns_ this place, doesn’t he? “Which one’s yours? What do you like, _Nicolas?_ ”

Nico stares at her, his jaw shifting, tongue dragging over the front of his teeth. “You think I’m like them, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know,” she chokes, laughs, but it’s hollow, torn between despair and disgust and anger. “You own this— this— whatever the fuck this place is.”

“It’s just business—”

“It’s not!” Ellie yells, her face twisting. “A club is business, a restaurant, a fucking _spa_ is a business! This is… it’s illegal!”

Nico laughs, sharp and rough, shaking his head, his smile brittle before it falls. “So are we.”

Ellie flinches. Because they are, aren’t they? Not only is she seventeen, not only is he thirty-four, but he’s her fucking _dad._

And it hits her, for the first time, that he could go to _jail_ for what they’re doing. _And he knows it._

 “It’s only illegal if you get caught, sweetheart, and I don’t get fucking _caught_.”

Ellie scoffs, anger biting at her thoughts, chewing away at her soft parts. She shakes her head, ducking under his arm and backing away from him. Knocking his hand away when he reaches for her, scowling.

“So, what do you like, then? Owning a place like this you must be into _something._ ”

 “I w _ork here._ ”

“You run a fucked up sex club but you’re not— you’re not into _anything_?”

Nico narrows his eyes, crossing his arms as he leans against the desk, his arms thick, muscles tense, like he’s doing it to stay still, to not reach out for her, like he just tried to do.  His voice is deep, distant, touched with anger when he asks, “What do you think you I’m into, Ellie?”

“I don’t know! I have no fucking idea!” she swings her arm out, bringing it back in quickly, hugging herself. “You’re always so— so in control and—and _careful_ and— I’ve heard shit about this place, about what people do here, but you’re— this is— you sell _girls_!”

“I do not fucking _sell girls,_ ” he growls, his jaw clenched, standing straighter, his eyes sharp. “Men and women _work_ here, they get paid, really fucking well, sweetheart. They have shifts and hours and fucking _vacation time._ I’m not a pimp, or some fucking _trafficker._ I own a building, I run a business. It might not be legal to you, sweetheart, but it’s still a fucking _business_.”

“You sell sex!”

“Yes! And drugs and guns and fucking _art!_ I didn’t lie to you when I told you I operate on supply and fucking demand.”

“No, but you didn’t fucking tell the truth either!” Ellie shouts, her body trembling; anger toxic on the back of her tongue. “And you still aren’t!”

“I am,” Nico growls. “I’m not lying to you about anything.”

“Then what the fuck do you like!” Ellie cries out, bites her cheek, shaking so hard she thinks her teeth are rattling.

“I fucking like you, Ellie!”

“Yeah, _Daddy,_ ” Ellie sneers. “You like me. Is that why Zhurov asked me if I called you daddy?”

“He fucking _what?_ ” Nico’s face twists, his lip curling as he takes a step towards her. “He asked you—”

Ellie stumbles back a step, glaring up at him. “Yeah, guess you aren’t so great at not getting _caught_ , huh?”

Nico takes another step, Ellie avoids him, her jaw tight, anger sparking as he stares at her. “What did he say to you? I need to know _exactly_ what he sai—”

“Seemed pretty sure we were fucking.”

Nico stops, stuck-still for a second, then he’s looking away from her and dragging a hand over his mouth, rubbing his lips, his voice empty when he says: “ _Were._ ”

 “So, I wanna know, _Daddy._ Is that your thing? That what gets you off? Girls calling you daddy?”

Nico’s mouth opens, and snaps shut, his jaw tensing like he’s biting back words, anger, _violence._ “What are you asking me right now, Ellie? If I’m like that man in the hall?”

“Are you?” she chokes out, the back of her mind screaming at her, because he’s _not_ , _he’s not,_ he’s— _hers._

_Isn’t he?_

His face goes blank so quickly she thinks he really is a statue she dreamt to life and now he’s dying, fading back into stone in the face of her anger.

His jaw shifts, his teeth grind, he’s quiet so long it makes her skin _itch._

And when he speaks, his voice is rough, hollowed and scraped clean with anger. “Do you want to know if I’m into tying girls up, Ellie? Or if I’m into fucking kids? Into whips or choking or blood? If I want to make you cry? What the _fuck_ _are you asking me_?”

“I—” she swallows, her throat tightening, that sharp hot blade sinking down it, because for the anger she can hear, for all the rough-edged fury… he sounds _devastated._ Her breath hitches. “I don’t _know._ You never— I feel like I don’t even fucking know you.”

Nico looks away, tugging a hand through his hair; face shadowed, into something angry, twisted, _hurt._ “You want to know if I’m into you because you’re seventeen? If I like girls that are too pretty for their own good? If I like them young like those fucks I get paid to entertain?”

A beat of silence, his eyes hard, narrowed, his lip curling.

“You think I’m like them?”

Ellie shakes her head, even as her eyes burn and her throat aches, because she’s wrong, she knows it, her mind screams at her in images of his hands on her, his mouth, all those sweet, wanting words he presses into her skin… but her mind is full up with worries and what-ifs and fucking half truths more like lies.

“I don’t understand!” she cries, but it’s angry and hot, too loud in the small room. “I don’t understand how you can own a place like this and—” she makes a noise in her throat, frustrated and sharp.

“And _what_?”

“And want _me_!” Ellie cries.

“ _Ellie_ ,” Nico exhales, moves forward to close the distance, but Ellie makes a noise in her throat, stepping away again. “El, for fuck’s sake—” he grits out through his teeth, looking strained, barely contained, like it’s impossible for him to stay there while she’s just out of reach.

 “What do you need to hear from me to trust me when I say I’m with you and fucking _only you—_ ” Nico steps forward, edging closer his face full of desperate anger. “What do I need to say to convince you? Do you want to know the things I think about when I jerk off, sweetheart? What you look like, sound like, feel like in my fucking _head_? How I _only_ _fucking see_ _you,_ _Ellie_.”

Ellie shakes her head, because she doesn’t know what she wants to hear, doesn’t know what will make it better, only that she doesn’t understand any of it. How he can own a place like this, run a place like this, be a— a what? A drug dealer? Sex dealer? Is he the mafia just like Maksim?

“Is this why my mom hates you?” she asks thickly, swallowing tightly, crossing her arms, knotting her fingers in her coat, an itch in her skin to go to him, to press her face into his neck and let him make it all fucking go _away._ “Why she never told you? Never told _me?”_

His mouth opens, shuts and this time he’s closing the space between them, backing her into the wall and keeping her there, even while she tenses, even while she thinks to shove him away, her hands coming up to grip his wrists as they come up to cup her neck, fingers stretched out and into her hair, his thumbs on her cheeks, holding her still.

No place to hide, no room to think, no space to fucking _breathe._

“I know you don’t understand this place, Ellie. I know you think it’s some… some fucked up thing. But it’s just _sex_ —” Ellie pulls in a breath, her mouth opening to argue, but Nico keeps going, his hands heavy thumbs holding her head up, keeping her eyes on his. “It’s just fucking _sex._ Most of the people who come here are men and women who have careers in the public eye, or their private lives could ruin their careers. They’re judges, lawyers, doctors, politicians… most of them just want privacy to enjoy the fucking things that get them off.”

He looks down at her, something desperate on his face.

 “I told you I’m not a nice man,” he says quietly, like it’s a truth made of knives, so sharp she could cut herself. “I _told_ _you_.”

His hands tighten, like the weight of his warm palms can press her into understanding.

“Your mother knew me when I was young and angry and _stupid_ with my own fucking ego. I wanted everything I didn’t have. I wanted better and more and _—”_ he cuts off, swallows. “My parents gave up everything to be together, Ellie. Became nothing just to have me… and I was willing to do fucking anything to be _something other than that._ I was angry and violent and thought I could take anything I wanted… and _I did_ , baby, I took it _all_. I stole it, I bought it, I fucking _killed for it_.”

Ellie pulls in a sharp quivering breath, her hands clamped around his wrists, nails digging into his skin in white crescents; shaking so hard there’s no way he doesn’t feel it.

 “But I would have been a good father to you, Ellie. I would have, I swear it. If I had known—”

Ellie’s lip wobbles, her throat aching, vision blurring, burning as she clenches her eyes shut, pulling in a shaky, hitching breath through her bitten-raw lips.

Nico leans down, presses his mouth to her forehead, hard, his lips dry and soft, his hands sliding up the back of her neck to sink into her hair, tugging at it to tilt her head a little higher. “I am so sorry, baby.”

She doesn’t want to cry, bites her cheek, her lip to hold in the quiver, digs her nails into his skin harder, breathing unsteady and hot and painful. “Are you bad?”

 _Bad,_ she thinks, _what kind of question is that?_ Sounds stupid and childish and can’t focus on anything but _him._

“I’m sorry,” he exhales, his words nothing more than a minty breath on her mouth. “I’m sorry I couldn’t say no to you. Even when I knew I should have. Even when I should have left you alone. Your mother wasn’t wrong to keep you out of my life, I know that, even if part of me hates her for it.”

“I am not a nice man, I am not a good person, but I never lied to you about who I am, I just… I just fucking wanted to keep you, Ellie. I wanted you for myself because I’m selfish and greedy and I hate the idea of fucking sharing you, even if it’s just with other parts of my own life.”

It hurts to hear it, to know it, to have all those jagged edged puzzle pieces slotting into place along the frame of the puzzle she’s had in the shape of Nicolas Cordova, father, Nico— _Daddy—_ in her head for so long. To have him come together, to see his edges, all the ticking parts that make him up into the man she—

She—

“I want _you_ , baby, you and your bratty fucking mouth,” he says roughly, his hands tight, his voice heavy. “I want you because you drive me crazy, because you’re the prettiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. Because you have my smile. Because your pussy tastes like candy. Because you blush so sweet it kills me. Because you like watching me fuck you just like I do—”

And still, even hearing things she knows she doesn’t want to hear, he keeps talking.

“Because you’re the best goddamn thing in my life.”

Ellie closes her eyes, lets him stroke his hands from the back of her head, over her neck, to cup her cheeks; his palms so wide and warm, so engulfing, just the way his body is. The way he is. His mouth warm and soft as he kisses the heat of her nose, her bitten, quivering bottom lip.

“I’m not with anyone else. I haven’t— I _couldn’t—_ ” Nico ducks his head a little more holding her head up higher, making sure she’s listening, watching, _hearing_. “I’d rather cut my fucking cock off than put it inside _anyone_ fucking else, you understand?”

Ellie shrugs, sniffs, blows out a too-hot, too-shaky breath.

Nico sighs, straightening up, his hands sliding to her neck, back into her hair, back over the sides of her neck to her shoulders. “I need to know what you need from me to trust me, Ellie. I need… you have to tell me what I need to do here.”

Ellie shakes her head, because she doesn’t know. There are still so many things screaming to be heard inside her mind, echoing and building—

“Do you—” she cuts off, because he isn’t, didn’t he just tell her how much he _couldn’t._ “Did you do what you told that guy? Try out girls before—”

“No, baby, never. I promise. I don’t even hire the fucking people who work here. I’m just…” Nico sighs, leaning his forehead against hers. It’s weird, watching him, she doesn’t think she’s ever seen him so… _emotive_. “Do you want me to just show you? That this place isn’t really what you think it is?”

“I thought you didn’t want me here?” Ellie asks, thinks _yes_ , thinks _no_ , thinks she has no fucking idea what she wants. Wants to understand him, wants to go home, wants to climb into his bed and let him weigh her down; make her forget everything but his body and hers.

“If you need to see it than I’ll show you it all, Ellie,” he says easily, straightening up again, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear, her braid loose and fraying around her face.

“Who hires the girls—”

 _“_ People,” Nico interrupts. “There are men and women who work here. Some are a little both, even. Or neither.”

Ellie blinks, “Who hires the g—  the people who work here, then?”

“Liv. _Oliva_ , she’s the Mistress, Matron… whatever you want to call her, she runs this side of Elysium. I just… use it for my own purposes every— not like _that,”_ he says firmly, when Ellie’s mouth opens. “For business connections, sweetheart.”

Ellie bites her lip, trying to hold the question in, because it shouldn’t matter but it does. “Do— _did_ you use this place a lot? Before…” _Me,_ she thinks.

Nico smirks, huffing a little laugh. “Sweetheart, do I _look_ like the kind of guy who needs to pay for sex?”

Ellie rolls her eyes, blowing out a breath. “I’m serious. You own—”

Nico shakes his head. “It’s not that kind of business, El, I told you. The people who work here are employees. I have, however, paid for someone else to…enjoy their time here. As a gift.”

“So, you really just…own a sex club thing and you don’t _use_ it. You’re not like… into anything?”

Nico squints at her, his hand resting on the side of her neck. “You really want to know if I have some secret kink for whips or something, huh?”

Ellie shrugs, worrying her lip. “I just don’t… you’re always so controlled and sometimes…” she pauses, chewing her cheek while she thinks about how to say it. “Sometimes it feels like you’re too controlled. Like I don’t… do it for you?”

Nico laughs, once, his eyebrows shooting up, and he blinks down at her like she’s _joking_ and then laughs again, cupping her neck with his hands, tilting her face up and leaning down, a laughing press of his lips to her cheek.

“I’m sorry, baby, but that’s the most ridiculous fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

Ellie frowns, turning her head when he tries to kiss her. “I’m serious.”

He nods, trying to bite back his smile. “I know you are, lets… go to my office and talk about this, okay? I need to let my security back in here.”

Ellie glances at the screens, remembering the two men standing just down the hall, the man on the screen, kneeling in the centre of that room…and nods.

 

 

                His office looks like him, if _Nico_ were a way to label a certain aesthetic. It’s modern, glass and hard lines, but it’s softened by warm wood tones and warm lighting. The glass wall in front of them looks down over the main floor of Elysium and Ellie thinks again about that first night.

How different would things have been if she’d stayed? What would have happened if Nico hadn’t been left to wonder, to hunt her down, chase her down, to bring her _home._

But she shakes it off, sinking into the soft sofa and looking around the room. At the two doors on the left wall, the bookshelf behind a large heavy wood desk to the right.

Nico leans down to grab something on the wall behind his desk, coming back with a water bottle and offering it to her, taking a long swallow after she does, nearly draining it before he drops down beside her on the couch and then, in one smooth, manhandling haul, pulls her into his lap.

He sets his fingers to her coat buttons and Ellie watches each long finger pop the shiny black button free.

“I need you tell me about Zhurov before we talk about anything else.”

Ellie looks down, and is too physically, _emotionally_ drained to care that she’s pouting; wants to sink forward and bury herself in his chest. “I don’t want to talk about Maks."

Nico’s mouth tightens. Pops another button on her jacket, hands sinking lower.

“ _Maks_ ,” he mutters, pushing out a heavy sigh. His eyes, downcast, watching his fingers, watching as he peels off her jacket, taking her in even though she’s in nothing more than leggings and a long sleeve Roastery shirt with _Espress-yo Self_ across the chest.

Nico’s lips twitch, but all he does is drop the jacket over the arm of the couch and set his hands to her hips, warm and wide on her sides.

“I need you to understand the difference between what I do and what he does.”

Ellie bites her cheek, thinks she really would like nothing more than to lean forward and press her face into his neck, let him hold her and tell her again, just how much he wants her; but she curls her fingers over his shoulders and stays still instead.

“We’re both bad men, El,” he says slowly, like he isn’t sure how to explain it to her. “I won’t lie to you about it. I’ve done… a lot to get where I am. A lot of stupid, selfish shit to climb up from that shithole I grew up in. I don’t care about the law, not when most of the world is run by men outside of it.”

“Sergei said you’re a good man.”

“Did he?” Nico asks, frowning. “When did he tell you that?”

“On the way to see your mom… after I saw that photo of Maks? I asked him if you were just a businessman.” She laughs, hollow and a little bit bitter. “I knew, you know, I knew there was _something._ ”

Nico’s thumb rubs over her hip, slow and a little distracting. “I know you want clear answers. For me to make it easier to understand. But it’s complicated. For as easy as it is to say I’m a criminal, or a part of the mafia… it’s not that simple. My family is complicated. My connections to Zhurov are— even more complicated.”

“He said you’re a liar, you know? That you’re just like him. You said he’s dangerous but he... but he said you were the same as him. And he knows about Elysium, asked me if I knew that it wasn’t just a dance club.”

“And about us?”

Ellie shrugs a little. “I’m honestly not sure if he was just guessing or not. He said, _do you call him daddy when he fucks you?_ I don’t know if…”

“If he was trying to see your reaction, or just wanted to scare you.” Nico’s hands stroke up sides a little, his fingers inching, like he isn’t even aware he’s doing it. “What did you say?”

Ellie shakes her head. “Nothing. Sergei got there before I could even react, really.”

He nods, looking angry, tense, like he wants to hit something. “What else?”

“He called me Kaytoo— kahtoonek?” she stumbles over the memory, the easy way it slipped out of Maksim’s mouth, his easy smile for her, even as he called her a liar. “Said my smile changed when I’m nervous.”

“It does,” Nico says, rubbing a hand over his jaw, up through his hair as he sighs. “Your dimples don’t show when you’re hiding something or upset.”

Ellie blinks at him, frowning. “How—”

Nico pushes at her lightly. Ellie gets the hint and slips back and off his lap, stepping away a little as he stands, holding out his hand. “Come here.”

She takes it, lets him pull her with him, towards the far wall, where there’s another room— a bathroom, Ellie realises, still warm and slightly damp from someone showering.

From Nico _showering_. Alone, she knows because it smells like him, because there’s one towel half tossed in the sink, another white shirt, exactly like the one he’s wearing, balled up on the floor. Like he rushed, came right to her when Sergei called.

Ellie winces, a little ball of guilt melting inside of her, thinking about his face, _you think I’m fucking someone else._

“Here,” Nico interrupts her thoughts, pushing her to stand in front of the mirror as he stands behind her. Ellie tears her eyes away from the shirt, from the tint of some dark stain, peeking out from a fold of fabric. “Smile for me.”

Ellie frowns at him, because she’s _tired,_ physically, mentally, _emotionally_ … smiling is the last thing she wants to do.

“Come on, Princess,” he urges, pulling her tighter against him. “One smile.”

Ellie licks her lips, smiling as best she can, but it’s weak and crooked before it drops entirely. “Why’d you shower?”

Nico goes still, his hand on her stomach, his chest shifting slow and steady behind her as he breathes.

“I shot someone,” he says eventually, looking at her in the mirror, his voice flat like he’s stating facts, numbers, _nothing._

Her first reaction comes quickly, Ellie snorts, a smile crossing her mouth because it just sounds so fucking _ridiculous._

_I shot someone._

Like he baked a _cake_ or something.

Nico looks at her in the mirror, his eyes locked with hers, his hand flat on her stomach, holding her against him, her head skimming his chest. “In the knee, at first. He’d been skimming money.”

Her smile sinks, dying slowly. “See?” he says, nodding at her face. “Your dimples fade the less true the smile is.”

His fingers skim her side and Ellie jerks, laughs, squirms away, but Nico’s not smiling when she straightens, pulling in a breath, her smile wide.

“See?” he asks, his hand coming up to touch her dimple, but it fades under his finger, his face too serious, his voice too heavy. “Zhurov met you in that gallery and I bet you would have smiled at him, like any girl would smile at some random older man coming up to talk her… But then he came to the Roastery… And, eventually…” Nico skims her side again, fingers light and quick to make her cry out a high-pitched _stop_ , her body sagging to try to squirm away, but his arm holds her still, his fingers merciless.

And then he stops, holding her against him, arm wrapped around her middle, waiting for her to catch her breath. He’s watching her in the mirror when she can meet his eyes again, laughter fading into nothing more than little high breaths. “Eventually he would have seen this smile… and this smile…”

He smiles, quick, his dimple appearing and disappearing quickly. “Is a real smile.”

_You think he’s not a liar, kotenok, just like me?_

“What’s it mean, Kat—kaytunuk?”

“Kitten,” Nico states, his face empty again, unreadable, unknowable.

“Did you really shoot someone?”

“Yes.”

 “Why?”

“Like I said, he was stealing, I asked him how and why and then I put a bullet in him. I came back here and I showered because I got some blood on me.”

_The real-life versions are much, much worse, darling. I promise you._

“You _killed him_?” Ellie forces out, looking at him in the mirror, stuck still, can’t think about anything but _please be a joke—_

Nico nods, his face blank, like he’s waiting for judgement, for anger, for Ellie to shove him away and leave him.

“You… a lot of people?”

Nico doesn’t say anything, just looks at her.

Ellie tenses, slowly, like her body’s filling up with ice, turning to face him, leaning against the sink, bracing her hands on the cold rim. “But you said you’re not like him?”

 “I’m _nothing_ like Zhurov,” Nico bites out, his jaw tensing. “Zhurov— the people he represents… it’s the worst of humanity, Ellie. International arms dealing, sex trafficking, slavery…”

Nico cuts off, his tongue scraping over his teeth. “People like Zhurov don’t care about anything or anyone. He— Do you know why Sergei works for me?”

Ellie shakes her head, confused about the change in subject.

“Sergei used to work for Zhurov, years ago,” he starts and Ellie thinks _yes, Sergei told me_ , but stays quiet, looking up at Nico. “He didn’t have a lot, growing up, you know? Just him and sister scraping by in a country that didn’t care about them at all. But that’s what draws people like Zhurov, that hunger, that loneliness… it’s just a tool to them. A thing to use… until he wasn’t useful anymore.”

“What he’d do to him?”

“Sold his sister.”

“ _Sold_ her—” Ellie chokes out, her face twisting, her stomach filling with ice.

Nico nods, pulling in a deep breath. “He came to Sergei’s home and took her right in front of him, made him watch as he shoved her in a car and sold her like she was a piece of property. Like she was _his_ property. Like she _deserved_ it.”

“What happened to her?”

“Sergei came to me, he’d heard about me and that I didn’t deal in trafficking. That I didn’t agree with it. He came to New York and offered me everything he had, his _life,_ to get his sister back.”

Ellie sucks in a breath, imagining Sergei, the mass of him, desperate, begging for Nico’s help to save his sister. An impossible thing to imagine, she thinks. How clawing, painful it would feel to lose the only thing that mattered to you.

Ellie wants to ask if she’s okay, if Sergei got his sister back the way he’d hoped. But she can’t. She can’t imagine—

“You found her though, right?”

Nico nods, reaching out to touch Ellie’s cheek, his thumb warm as it brushes her cheekbone. “Please don’t call him Maks.”

Ellie nods, taking one step forward to close the distance between them, to push her face into his chest, to breathe him in; his hand pushing through her hair, cupping the back of her head.

“Is she… I mean…”

“I think you should ask Sergei if you really want to know more, it’s…it’s not my story to tell. Only my part in it.”

Ellie nods, winding her arms around his waist, listening to his heart beating just a little to fast in his chest. His other hand coming up to her head, to tilt her head back. She blinks up at him, letting him look at her, search her face for whatever he needs to see.

“Can… can I kiss you, Ellie?”

Her heart trips and she isn’t sure why, the soft way he says it, the way his hands feel on her, the fact that he’s _asking_ at all.

Ellie reaches up, slides her hands up his chest to his shoulders, scrapes her short nails against the back of his neck, urging him down, down… hitches a breath before their lips touch because even now, even knowing about all the missing pieces she didn’t understand… he’s still just—

The kiss is soft, too slow, so sweet and tender that it fucking _aches_ ; makes her scratch her nails harder into the nape of his neck. Makes her tilt up on her tiptoes to sink deeper into that ache. Makes him kiss her harder, deeper, his head tilting a little more, his hands sliding down her spine to palm her ass, to lift her up, to haul her into him and onto the sink.

Nico steps between her legs, his hand slipping up the back of her shirt, palm hot on her skin, up her spine, down her side… his mouth on hers like he’s trying to bruise-memory her kiss into his mind.

Ellie wraps her legs around his waist, fists the collar of his shirt, pulls herself closer and—

This is what she wants, she thinks. This is the answer. What she needs…

“Please,” she hitches against his mouth, soft and breathless and needy.

Nico groans, his hand bruising on her hip, hauling her higher again, carrying her out of the bathroom without even breaking their kiss. The world moves around her, shifts as he toes off his shoes, tilts as he gets one knee on the couch, softens as he lays her flat.

Nico braces over her, his hair falling loose, his mouth red, kiss swollen like hers, and looks at her, his breathing hard and shallow.

Ellie feels something inside of her, swelling, aching, _too much_ ; it builds like she’s been holding her breath, like she’s suffocating and choking for air— even though she knows she’s breathing, near panting as Nico looks at her.

“Tell me you believe me about there only being you,” he says roughly, quietly, so full of _something_ it breaks that little ball of guilt a little more open. It’s not really a question, one of his strange commands that should be questions but don’t quite come out _asking._

Ellie unknots her fingers from his shirt, brings them up to his jaw, his cheeks, wants his mouth back on hers, wants him heavy and hot and fucking _everywhere_ all at once. She pulls him down, kisses him, bites his bottom lip, until there’s a quiet noise in the back of his throat and he’s pressing heavier down on her, shifting down onto his forearm, his other hand spreading wide on her neck, curved around the back, thumb stroking her cheek.

Nico kisses her back, stealing her breath as he presses her into the couch, kissing her harder, harder, more desperate, like he didn’t really think he’d get to do it again.

It’s not enough, she thinks, to ease that suffocating feeling inside of her, the one filled up with his smiles and laughter and voices breaking through images of his face in the dark, a gun in his hand. Sergei. Maks. A stolen girl. A gun. A handshake. _A piece of meat—_

_I only fucking see you, Ellie._

_I know,_ she thinks, feels it claw at her chest, burn like bile at the back of her throat, makes her eyes water and her heart ache. _I know. I know. I know._

“I’m so sorry,” Nico groans between their mouths. “Baby, I’m so—”

Ellie kisses him harder, steals his rolling, chest deep words; reaches down between them to get at his pants. Needs it, she thinks, needs _him._

“Fuck me,” she chokes out, wet against his mouth when he tenses, just a little, above her. “Daddy, please.

His hand tightens on the side of her neck before he pushes back roughly, pulling her up with him to tear her shirt over her head, his eyes heavy, his hands rough, snapping her bra, tossing it aside.

He pushes her back to the couch, his eyes sinking over her, his mouth red and shiny, his eyes dark as he tugs off his own shirt, watching Ellie pull her leg out from where it’s pressed between his side and the couch, watches her awkward and shaky legs as she lifts her hips, shoving at her leggings, squirming to get them off.

He only shoves his pants down enough to tug his cock out; it hangs thick and heavy, makes her insides squirm, her cunt clench. Makes her breath stutter as he grabs her ankles, rips off her shoes, tugs at her leggings only long enough to get one leg free and then just…knocks her legs wide. Nico tilts back over her, one thick arm braced by her head, his bicep tense and flexing, fingers knotting into her hair, too rough, but so fucking good her eyes flutter closed when his mouth hits hers again.

His other hand slips up her leg, her thigh, over the curve of her hip, caressing over her side, her stomach, palming her breast, brushing his fingers over the peak of her nipple, up her neck…

Turns his head away from her mouth, his fingers coming up to her mouth. “Spit.”

Ellie flushes, but gathers saliva in her mouth, turns her head and lifts it a little off the couch cushion to spit onto his fingers, it’s gross and wet and fucking hot all at once, but she doesn’t have time to focus on the slickness of her lips before he’s kissing her again and his fingers are gone—

And then they’re _there_ , slippery and warm against her cunt only for a second, one breath, one stroke of his tongue against hers, and he’s sinking them deep, two at once, making her tense up and gasp into his mouth because they're long and thick and she isn't as wet as she normally is.

Nico kisses to the side of her lips, trails his mouth over her cheek, scrapes his teeth over her jaw; nothing slow about the way his fingers curl inside of her, nothing patient about how they rub those nerves inside her, hard and quick and rough enough it makes her moan, makes her claw at his back, makes him lean down a little more, to press his mouth to hers again, trying to swallow the sounds.

She gets wetter by the second, almost embarrassingly quick, but his fingers are thick and focused and there's something about the ache she loves. She’s squirming in seconds, trembling beneath him in moments, her leg climbing higher against his side, her spine tightening, hips rolling…

Nico’s hand tightens in her hair and his mouth falls away from hers as he looks down at her, the wet noise of his fingers curling, working inside of her get louder, _wetter_ by the second.

“I’m gonna fuck you,” he says roughly, their lips brushing, sharing air.

Ellie nods, so eager it’s embarrassing, so eager she swears her cunt clenches just on the _idea_ of it. Her toes curling as he works a third finger in; his eyes, dark with want, heavy with something so fucking much like _need_ it makes her want to cry.

“I’m gonna fuck you, baby,” he growls against her mouth. “But I need you to tell me if I hurt you. If you need me to stop—”

Ellie nods, or tries to, but she’s tensing, clutching at his back, turning her head into his bicep, cunt spasming on his fingers as he twists them, makes her cry out as his thumb rubs slippery over her clit. Makes her twitch as he keeps doing it, as she tries to squirm away from the weight of it sparking through her, but he’s too heavy, his body too thick to get away from, one leg trapped between his side and the couch, the other blocked from closing by his arm between her legs.

Ellie whines, strained and desperate and feeling so empty as his fingers slip out of her that it’s painful.

Nico’s jaw tenses, and he presses his mouth to hers, kissing her hard, their teeth clacking before he tilts his head and licks into her mouth.

The first, hot brush of his cock over her makes her whimper; Nico rubs the thick of his cock from her ass over her cunt and up to her clit, again and again until she’s nearly crying for him to do _something._

She isn’t even sure it’s words she says, just a whine mixed with groan tinted with _pleasedaddy—_

And then the fat head of his cock is against her, pushing in and it _hurts…_ makes her tense up, makes her wrap her arm tighter around his neck, their mouths breaking apart.

It’s the first time she’s really thought about why he spends so long fingering her, why he uses three, why he eats her out until she’s _dripping_.

He's hot and hard over her, a should-be suffocating weight that trips her up for how much she likes it. How much she likes being stuck beneath him, feeling that ache, that stretch, that too-much filling-up of his cock pushing into her. Nothing to focus on but his body and hers. Every too thick, too long fucking inch.

She braces a hand on his arm, squirming beneath him until she can see between the small space between their bodies; Nico shifting a little, his arm coming out from between them and hooking under her knee, holding her open and immobile, his cock barely an inch inside of the wet, stretching pink of her cunt.

Ellie looks down, nearly folded in two, seeing the heart-tripping thick of his cock resting just inside of her.

“Christ, Ellie,” he growls, knowing she’s looking down, his mouth sliding over her temple, his breath hot as his hips pulse forward in little inching circles.

There’s an itch to roll up to meet him, to push him deeper, to watch him sink the thick of his cock deeper and deeper inside of her, watch the stretch of her cunt, feel that aching fullness faster… but she’s stuck watching, pinned down by his body, the iron-hard muscle in his arm, hooking her knee high, her leg splayed wide.

It makes her whimper, unable to move, watching his abs tense and his hips flex and shift forward, cock sliding in, coming out slick in little inching pulses deeper and deeper and—

It’s endless, too slow, too quick, not enough and too much… his cock stretching her open, pushing deeper, filling her up until she’s stuffed so full of him she can barely breathe.

And still, she can see, he’s not all the way in.

" _God, Daddy_ ," Ellie whimpers, her head drops back when Nico’s hips tilt back before he’s pushing those same inches back into her, slow and steady and so good it makes her sob, her nails buried in his arm, her fingers scrambling at the tense muscles of his back…

Nico finds her mouth, kisses her messily, roughly, his hand knotting tighter into her hair as he hitches her leg a little higher and—

Sinks into her again, deeper, deeper… Ellie’s thigh tensing on his arm, her nails cutting into him when he keeps _going,_ keeps filling her, keeps pushing his cock inside of her, her spine tightening, body trembling as he keeps going, sinking into her until his hips are pressed against her ass and Ellie’s clawing at his back because he’s pressing on something inside of her and it _hurts—_

Makes her cry out, makes her body tense up, makes her brace her hand against his arm, makes her pull back on reflex... but she can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t think about anything but how fucking full of him she feels. 

Can't do anything but stay still and take it, pull in another breath and feel like she's a second from bursting apart.

Nico groans against her cheek, his stubble scraping her jaw, his arm trembling beneath her knee… and that pain, that ache that throbs out from somewhere so deep inside of her eases at just how good it feels to hear him, feel him, just like this.

She thinks _too much, too much,_ and _Daddy_ and _fuck_ and _do something—_

But he doesn’t move, and he doesn’t move and he _won’t fucking move—_

And his cock throbs inside of her; she can feel her muscles clenching at him, can feel him inside of her, feeling so fucking _stuffed_ that she swears he’s in her _throat_.

His hips twitch, tiny little shifts, like it’s fucking impossible for him to stay still, but still he doesn’t move, doesn’t move, won’t _fucking move_ until Ellie’s squirming and panting beneath him.

 _It’s_ _too much_ , she thinks, _too much--_ the feeling of it, the depth and ache of him inside of her feels like a bruise, like pressing your fingers against one, that weird ache that doesn’t really _hurt_ , but does, at the same time.

The stretch of him is killing her though, even without moving his cock is rubbing against those nerves inside of her and if he doesn’t fucking _move_ she’s going to cry.

Thinks she might actually be crying already, actually. Feels the burn in her nose, her lips, the wet tremble in them when she breathes. Hadn’t even realised she closed her eyes, clenched shut, her face buried in his neck until he pulls back.

Nico kisses her cheek, little wet leak out of the side of her eye, her nose, her lips…

The first shift of his hips feels like that drop of a roller coaster, like she’s emptying out from bottom to top—

And then he presses back in and it’s slow, so slow, builds inside of her like she’s going to burst any second… his cock nudges that spot inside of her but rubs against her nerves the entire way in and it’s an aching bruised feeling filled up with toe-curling pleasure; makes her body tense up, makes her pant and tremble as he watches her.

She can’t even make a sound, just tries to breath as he pulls back again, but this time she gets more of that long slow climb of his cock rubbing against her nerves, his head pressing against the top of her before he pulls back to do it again.

Each stroke the same slow, deep… _filling._

Each stroke a little quicker, a little _deeper_ somehow, and Ellie’s arms are wrapping tighter around his shoulders, Nico’s mouth slipping along her jaw to her neck as Ellie’s voice breaks out of her, too loud, too desperate—

Again and again, his pace steady and deep and stroking her nerves the whole way until his hips hit her ass and his cock strokes that deep, toe-curling spot inside of her.

Again and again, a little harder each time, that same steady stroke tinged in something rough. It makes her cry out each time, her voice cracking, breaking as something builds inside of her every time his cock sinks all the way in and there’s that brief, bolt-quick flash of _too-much_ before he’s stroking back out only to rock back in again. 

Nico’s arm trembles beneath her knee, her hair caught in his other hand, pushing her head up a little, both of them looking down— watching it, watching the stretch of her cunt, the width of his cock, all shiny, thick and slick plunge deep, make her sob as her toes curl and her body trembles and she’s babbling, his mouth on hers but just sliding, sharing air and noises and—

"Wait," Ellie sobs because something’s burning up between her hips, and it’s bright and heavy and electric as it travels through her. _D-daddy, wait—_

“You’re alright,” Nico groans, kisses her messily, breathless; stroking deep, pace steady and so perfect it’s painful. “You’re alright, baby.”

He bottoms out, pulls back, drags his cock over every fucking electric-tipped nerve inside of her… bottoms out, pulls back and Ellie’s nothing more than a live-wire ending, sparking brighter and brighter and brighter until she’s shaking, clenching against his cock— she isn’t sure if she screams, or sobs or something a little bit of both, but it cracks out of her chest the same time her orgasm does—

And it hits her like she’s less a body than just those nerves his cock is stroking, like every inch of her is tensing, quivering, _flooding._ Cunt clenching, spasming, gripping around his cock, so tight it hurts, so tight she's nothing but one raw, bright, fucking  _sparking_ nerve as he fucks her through it.

Nico curses, and a little more of his weight drops onto her as his hips shove into hers, knocking against her ass, almost too rough, too hard, but she’s lost to her own trembling body, to her own quivering muscles, to his hips grinding against her, his cock pulsing thicker, twitching and throbbing as he comes.

He groans, so rough and low she feels it in her curled-white-tipped toes. Feels it inside of her cunt, her stomach, her _throat_ as his cock gets harder as he fills her, his hips grinding against her, making her tremble, hitch a breath. Too full, too stretched... even as he's softening, still so deep it aches every time he pulses, throbs, just a little more cum.

Nico's breath is hot on her neck, and he's heavy, hot, fucking hard to breathe under, but she doens't even care; nails buried in his back, tasting salt and his cologne and heat in her mouth on every breath she manages to drag into her own breathless body.

Distantly, she’s aware of how wet it feels between them and for a split second she thinks maybe she’s _bleeding,_ but Nico’s arm is coming out from beneath her leg, and he’s cupping her cheek, his mouth on hers. Slipping over her lips because he’s too breathless to kiss her properly, her cheek, up to the wet leak of tears out of her eyes that she hadn’t even _noticed._

It isn’t until Nico lifts his head up, just a little that she understands what happened; his thigh pressing a little more against the back of hers and that wetness isn’t slick, isn’t slippery, she—

 _Oh my God_ , she thinks. She _squirted_.

Nico grins once, sharply, his dimple deep before it’s lost to breathlessness, and Ellie feels the same raw, terrified sort of happiness well up inside of her and _laughs_ , once her smile so wide it hurts. There for a second, gone the next, and leaves them with nothing but each other’s hearts thumping in the same rib-breaking rhythm, their eyes locked…

Nico’s thumb strokes her cheek, chases the leak of her tears and she isn’t even sure why she’s crying, isn’t even really _crying_ she thinks, even though her lip quivers when he presses his mouth to hers, soft, so slow it’s as sweet as honey but chokes her too.

She isn’t sure how long they lie there, long enough his cock starts to fill out again, long enough she goes a little tense for the feeling of it, that bruise feeling lingering just beneath the boneless, mind-numbing, body-filling pleasure.

When Nico shifts as if to move off her, Ellie makes a noise in her throat, wrapping her leg tighter around his waist and shaking her head.

“You’ll be sore,” he mutters into her mouth, his lips slipping over hers, his cock thickening, stretching, filling out as it fills her up again.

“Don’ care,” she mumbles, breath hitching a little the thicker he gets. “Don’ leave.”

 _Never,_ he rumbles, and rocks a little inside of her.

 

 

 

 

 

                  It’s still snowing when Nico bundles her up and into his car; the world quiet, the line up to Elysium long gone as they round the front of the building. The clock on the dash glows _254,_ and Ellie yawns, blinking heavily, squirming into the warmed seat; her body sore and bled dry of energy, orgasms… any thoughts at all.

Nico’s hand stays in hers as he drives, one handed and oddly quiet, his hair mussed and his lips swollen from hers. She’s sore, _surprisingly_ sore, but the ache to have him inside of her again is a hot little thought that makes her cheeks burn and sitting still impossible.

She can’t stop _watching_ him. Her mind a tripping, a saturated slide of images and sounds and aches and…and her own leaking body, still slick in the seat of leggings, dripping cum, her own wetness, her body drained but still… still…

And then, they’re pulling up to her campus, and the field outside the car window is a pure white stretch of empty, glistening cold that makes her heart sink like lead into her stomach.

 “Mya’s gone,” she says quietly, because she suddenly, desperately doesn’t want to sleep alone. Doesn’t want to leave him even though she’s the one that said going back to his loft was a bad idea. That Paul was picking her up for Thanksgiving weekend in less than five hours, that she didn’t want him to have to drive her so early. Didn’t want them to risk sleeping in. Didn’t want to risk not being here when Paul shows up.

“She, uh, went home for Thanksgiving.”

Nico looks at her quietly, and she isn’t sure if she spoke without meaning too, but he seems to understand what she means anyway.

“I’m not even really sure if you’ll fit through my window,” she says quickly, her cheeks burning as he smiles, a crooked and lazy thing before leaning over to unbuckle her belt, to press his mouth to hers.

“Only one way to find out, huh, sweetheart?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

                Ellie wakes to thumping. To a beating, echoing drumline ricocheting into her skull.

She groans, stretches out and nearly cries out as her body protests every shift of her lower body. A dull ache that weighs down her limbs and somehow, lingers hot and sticky inside her belly.

It’s only in that groaning, whimpered stretch that Ellie realises she’s alone. Nothing but Nico’s cologne sunk into the pillow when she turns her head to chase the traces of him.

No warmth left, nothing but traces of his smell. Ellie wonders if he even slept, wonders if came to bed with her, curled around her because he was too fucking big for her bed, pressed the steady, lulling thump of his heart against her shoulder, weighed her down with his arm holding her tight only long enough for her to fall asleep.

If he waited, slipped out after she was asleep, knowing the risks of him being here at all.

She breathes deep, chasing him in her pillows. The pounding comes again and with it—

“Oh, _shit_ —” Ellie scrambles up, her body protesting every movement, feeling like that one time she went horseback riding, her thighs sore, the whole… whole _core_ of her feeling like a bruise.

“Just a second, Paul!”

“ _Are you_ —”

“One _second_ , I’m sorry!” _Jesus fuck, stop knocking,_ she thinks, wincing as she tears through her closet for the first pair of jeans and a sweater she can find, tugging them on and looking for her phone.

Paul knocks again and Ellie curses, eyes landing on her bedside table, her mouth opening—

She sees her phone, sees two white pills, and a water bottle waiting for her, Ellie’s mouth closes as she walks closer, ignoring Paul on the other side of the door.

But it isn’t the pills, or her phone that really catches her eye...

It’s the torn-out page from one of her notebooks, Nico’s scrawl dark and slanted:

_What’s mine is yours._

 

And the one, single, silver key sitting on it.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oookay! First up, here's the inspiration for that part of Elysium:  
> https://sweetandsure.tumblr.com/post/183186227979
> 
> And you should all check out SophieHatter's story about Sergei that runs alongside this story! It's amazing, it follows the story as we go and really adds some depth and new perspectives to the characters.  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/17792114/chapters/41977364  
> Go read it! Go love it. Go cry over sergei like I do. :)
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed this chapter, sorry (as usual lol) about the wait, but I needed it to be perfect. There was a lot that needed to come out and it really had to flow and 'sit right' with the characters and where they're going.


	21. Part Two, VI

               

 

* * *

Part II, Chapter VI

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

                Pulling out of her is a slow moment caught in the shine, the slickness leaking out between their bodies.

Ellie’s hands sink into his hair, her eyes heavy-lidded as he kisses down her chest, down her stomach; breathes out over the slow, soft rise and fall of it. Kisses her belly button, the slope of skin beneath it, slippery and slick with her orgasm, sticky beneath his lips, sweet and heavy on his tongue.

Her hands tighten, he lingers over her mound, wants to lick her up, swallow her down, keep her warm in his stomach, something to carry with him the way his cum will stay slick inside of her.

A soft kiss, right above her sex, nothing more than his lips to wet skin, his eyes closing, her fingers threading, nails catching, a lazy sort of stroke through his hair.

He isn’t really sure what to do with the relief he feels, the strung-tight but boneless fucking _relief,_ like he’s a puppet with his strings cut, Pinocchio made a real boy.

Presses his mouth to her skin and aches to tell her all the things in his head. How those moments felt, between her doubt and her anger, between her fear and her sorrow spilling between them like it was a crack in the earth, splitting them apart by the second. Seeing that question on her face, the distrust, the _accusation—_

Like he isn’t so fucked up over her it makes him fucking _sick._ Can’t imagine anyone else, hasn’t imagined anyone else— not even at the start when she was a shameful, slinking image seeping into his mind. Can’t even look at Irina without guilt weighing his bones down like they’re made of cement, ready to drag him right to the bottom of a lake like some parody of the life he lives. Sunk down to a watery sort of grave.

A stupid, weak mistake, a stupid, shame-filled fucking _joke_ , thinking he could ignore the things this girl does to him.

His girl. Right from that first fucking moment.

And hearing her, _seeing_ that look in her fucking eyes, he feels… wounded, cracked open and looking for even a little bit of comfort; the balm of her skin, the stitch of her body against his to seal that ache back up.

It’s easily, easily, the worst thing he’s ever felt in his life. Didn’t know he could hurt like that, that bodies could _feel_ like that. That a heart could break out of nothing more than a girl saying something in past tense _._

_Seemed pretty sure we were fucking._

He’s pretty sure that ‘ _were’_ hit him like a shotgun blast, dead centre chest. Everything after that had been a hemorrhage, a bloodied-toothed, desperate attempt to just— just fucking _keep her._

So, touching her now is… is something. Something perfect, _holy_ , but a bit fevered too, that kind of burning up fever that slows the world down; makes it all unwind down to small points of movement that feel tar-thick and humid-heavy. Her body warm, her skin hot, every soft touch a thing that kills him as much as it heals him.

“Nico?” she says quietly, because he’s nothing but deadweight over her lower body, pressed forehead to her belly, feeling her heartbeat against it, against his palms, tucked beneath her back and feeling that slowing thump-bump of her heart beneath her skin.

 _Don’t leave me,_ he thinks, doesn’t say, licks the taste of her from his lips and pushes up to sit back on his knees. Ellie looks up at him, her hands falling to her stomach, her eyes sinking low, down his chest, to the shine on his skin too. Fucked between them, slippery and sticky and stuck to their skin. To his cock, still shining from being inside of her.

There’s a little puddle beneath her, sinking in the creases of the leather couch beneath her ass, slipping towards his knees, already soaking in; she can’t see it but she must feel it because she winces, squirming as she realises what it is she’s feeling. He wants to tell her it’s the best thing he’s ever seen, the best thing he’s ever fucking _felt—_ but he thinks his voice got lost somewhere between slipping inside of her and his last orgasm.

Nico reaches for his shirt, hanging over the back of the couch and presses it between them, tucking it under her to soak the mess up, leaning forward when Ellie makes a caught noise in her throat, her cheeks flushing more, not just from sex.

He braces over her, presses his lips to hers, nothing more than a touch.

Ellie blinks up at him, arms coming up to wrap around his shoulders, and he leans back, pulling her into his lap before turning and settling back onto the couch with her folded over him.

Neither one says anything.

It’s just heartbeats and skin pressed together.

 

 

                But still, her words linger in him, her face in his mind, that fucking ‘ _were’_ sits like a hollow-point bullet in his chest. Lingers through helping her right her clothes, pull her back together beneath his hands, smooth her hair, kiss her again (because he gets to) tuck her feet into her shoes until she’s standing, weak kneed and unsteady, blinking heavily, lingering at his side while he changes. She doesn’t say anything about the dark splotch on his pants, even though she eyes it while he grabs new ones from the spare clothes he keeps in his office.

He’d keep them like that, if he could. A little memento, memory, _my girl did this._

 

 

                The car ride is silent, Ellie’s hand in his, nothing but the cold dark lit into something a bit otherworldly as they drive, snow fluttering, caught in the headlights, tinted orange in the glow of streetlights and shifting, still bright storefronts.

He’s used to this time of night, has operated most of his life in the time between sundown and sunrise, but it’s strange having her with him, makes him think things he shouldn’t. Makes him think things he told himself he wouldn’t think, the first time he saw her holding his gun.

He knows how this life treats women, how, for all it’s supposed to diverge from what happens in daylight, that there are parts of it, huge parts of it, that treat women as commodities, as things, as nothing more than a contract or a womb. That when Irina brought up marriage, he knew what she was going to say without even hearing the whole sentence.

He knows, easily, that Chicago would be happy to hear that New York has a daughter, that Nicolas Cordova has a daughter—

But that’s _never_ going to be Ellie. Can’t imagine it, even if she was just his daughter and nothing more. Handing her off like a _thing_ , like nothing more than a contract. A tool that buys an ally for a few more years. To keep peace, a pretty promise made between families.

And still, evening knowing what things she’d face, he wants her with him, in everything. Tried not to think about it, tried not to imagine it, tried not to wonder what it would be like to come home to her and not lie, not say _there was a fight a_ _t Elysium,_ but rather that they’d had some visitors from Atlanta who weren’t respecting another man’s territory and needed a little reminder of what rules meant. What New York meant. What Cordova meant.

He thinks about going home to his empty loft, empty room, empty bed. Thinks about what it would be like to come home to her, to take her home, to have her with him, at his side even when he’s Nicolas Cordova, even when he’s threatening a man for trying to steal from him, even when he’s shooting that man for _thinking_ he even fucking could at all.

“Mya’s gone,” Ellie’s voice breaks through his thoughts as they reach Trinity. “She, uh, went home for Thanksgiving.”

Nico looks at her, wondering if he said anything out loud or if it’s all just in his face and the clench of his hand around hers.

“I’m not even really sure if you’ll even fit through my window,” she says quickly, wincing a little, like she’s embarrassed she’s even suggesting it, a reminder of where they are, of how old she is, of the fact she’s seventeen and he has to break laws to be with her.

He thinks she needs to remember that he breaks laws everyday. Breaking a law to be with her is… the easiest law he’s ever broken.

But still, to sleep next to her… he’ll climb through any window he has to.

“Only one way to find out, huh, sweetheart?”

 

 

                He watches Ellie climb through first, a crooked smile on his face, entertained by the image, the sight of her doing something she’s done more than a few times to come see him (across the field, into his car, breaking rules to be with him since that first day.)

“This makes me feel fucking old,” Nico grunts as he hoists himself through her dorm window; has to go in backwards, shoulders first, pushing up on the sill before dragging one leg and then the other over it.

“You’re not old.” Ellie says quietly, and Nico smiles at her, doubtful but humoured by her denial and the shiver in her voice making the words tight and unsteady as the cold, crisp night air chases them into her dorm room, blowing in through the window. “You never snuck out of your school? Where did you go to school, anyway?”

Nico laughs, his breath fogging in front of him before he shuts the window, turning to lean against the small sill, looking at the shivering girl standing in the middle of her room, blinking tiredly in the dark. “Didn’t.”

“What?”

“Didn’t,” he says easily, looking around her dorm room, comparing it to the photos he has in his office, the first look he got into this girl’s life he got. Stealing bits of her in snapshots, sneaking files, bribing doctors… just to find out whatever he could about the girl in front of him. “Didn’t even finish high school.”

“Really?” Ellie says, her eyebrows tilting up. “But, you— I mean…”

He smiles crookedly. “Seem smart?” Ellie looks down, he doesn’t need a light to know she’s embarrassed. “Lots of ways to be smart, sweetheart. Highschool and me didn’t get along. I took classes on my own time, got my GED, took some courses online later, business and math, some science… the useful stuff.”

He shrugs, meeting her eyes as he pushes off the sill, moving towards her, feels the tightness of her body, the little shiver in her bones when he rubs his hands over her shoulders, trails them up her neck to cup it, leaning down to press his lips to hers. Wonders what it says about him, how much he likes how far down he has to lean.

He brushes his fingers into her hair, against her scalp, the knot her hair was in sagging low, nearly all the way undone, messy and tangled from her head rubbing against the couch. Her mouth is soft, her lips still a little kiss-plump, her cheeks cold when he cups them, slides them down, works open her jacket all while getting a little lost in her tongue brushing his.

“Where do you keep your pyjamas?” he asks against her mouth.

Ellie blinks, frowns in confusion before she moves to step back, but Nico holds her close, leaning down to press his lips to hers again. “Let me.”

She hesitates, he sees it, a flicker of it in her eyes, pooling on her tongue, _no._ But she nods, swallows, because she’s tired and probably sore, he knows. Can feel the slowness of her kisses, her body leaning more into his as he pushes her jacket off her shoulders.

“The white drawers, second one down.”

He goes, because there are things he wants to do for her that he isn’t sure he understands yet, knows _she_ doesn’t understand yet. Urges in him he can’t quite put into words. Things that go beyond the bounds and definitions of relationships, _relations,_ he’s had before.

He understands dominance, submission, roleplaying… understands the multitude of definitions that exist even in just those three ideas— Has _done_ so many of those things, in varying ways and degrees. And he thought he knew, thought he could define _this_ too.

Thought he could wrap it up neatly into one little package, label it, file it, _understand it—_

But… but it exists just outside of anything he knows.

Wants to care for her like this:

Pulls out an old red t-shirt, _Trinity Prep_ across the chest in faded white writing. Steps back in front of a girl, who has to tilt her head to look up at him, whose lips are kiss-swollen, who lets him peel off her t-shirt, lets him watch goosebumps spread across her skin. Who touches a hand to his shoulder when he crouches down to peel off her shoes, one foot and then the other. Lets him press his mouth to her stomach, curl his fingers around the hem of her leggings and press his mouth to her hip as he pulls them down.

She’s naked and shivering and slick between her thighs, and he has to press his mouth there too, has to kiss her cunt and cup the back of her thighs, has to hear that little sucked in breath from her mouth and not do anything about it, has to hold back the urge to take her to the bed and fuck her again, break her open again, do it all again and—

(Because he wants to care for her like this too: wants to hold her down, tie her up, fuck her so hard and so deep he’s sure to see it her stomach. Wants those tears from earlier, turn her into a pink-cheeked, sobbing mess beneath him. Wants her desperate and screaming. Wants her fucked sore and leaking. Wants to know what colour her ass would turn as he spanks her, wants to know if she could take him easier there too, or if that’d just break her. Wants to buy her a plug, fill her up with his cum, send her to school, to her home, to her fucking mother, stuffed up with him.)

But he reaches for that old, soft t-shirt, and pulls it on over her head, kisses her again and chokes back a clawing need to tell her that he lo—

He can’t. He can’t.

She doesn’t even _trust_ him yet, he won’t trap her with something like that. Snare her in his words, his softness, whatever role he’s playing now, Nico and Daddy and…fucking boyfriend, too.

Ellie wraps her arms around his neck, and when he stands, he takes her with him, an arm around her waist as he turns, gets a knee on her bed, lays her back on it, kisses her into it, until she’s soft and pliant; warm-tipped, a slow, sweet thing, like a girl made of nothing but a melting bit of honey.

He leans back, slips off her only long enough to peel out of his clothes, to put his keys and his phone on the night table, to tug the blankets out from beneath her and climb back in. He’s too long for the bed but it doesn’t matter, Ellie curls up on her side and he curves up behind her and pulls her into him. Kisses the back of her neck, pushes a hand over her stomach, weighs her down beneath his arm.

Ellie sighs, her eyes close, blink slowly back open, drop slowly back down. “You’re not just a businessman, are you?”

“No, El,” he says into her hair, watching the moonlight stretch and shift along her wall. “Not just a businessman.”

“Are you the mob, or something?”

He hesitates. “No, it’s— sort of, yes.”

“Does my mom really know?”

He closes his eyes, breathes out. “She thinks she does.”

She sighs a little, rolls beneath his arm and tucks her face into his neck, a leg over his waist. “Don’t go to jail, okay? I don’t think they’d let me in for conjugal visits.”

She presses closer, Nico blinks. Laughs once, a breathless rush of surprised air, lowering his voice to a gravelly pitch only for her. “I’ll take you on the run with me to Mexico, hm? Get you a place on the ocean.”

A low hum, a _yes_ , her breath slow and warm on his skin. He rubs a hand up her side, along her spine, down each bump, over her ass, her hip, her thigh, a slow, lazy path.

“A private beach, too. Watch you swim naked. Fuck you as the sun turns you all warm and brown. See if you burn like my mother or tan like my father.”

Her body softens, her heart slow against his palm. “’S’nice.”

“I won’t get caught though, so it doesn’t matter,” he murmurs to the angle of moonlight stretching out on her wall. _And you’ll grow up, realise this is stupid, that I can’t offer you the kind of life you should have. Can’t marry you. Can’t have kids. Can’t even fucking date you properly—_

Nico closes his eyes, tilts his head just enough to press his mouth to her forehead, breathing out heavily, pushing down that sick filling that swells up at the idea of it ending; of an eventuality he’s sure he’s known from the start, right from the first time he said it out loud.

_I want to keep you for as long as you’ll fucking let me._

He isn’t sure when he falls asleep, if he really does at all, but he dreams in bursts of sunspots, flickering in the shift of his eyes beneath his eyelids. Fragmented moments like a glint of gold sunlight caught on water, like cresting waves, laughter falling off like drying sand on wet skin—voices caught in a current, catching on promises and a—

 

 

                Low noise, one he’s attuned to after years of sleeping when he can, of business hours being anytime after the sun sets to anytime before it rises… and then having to keep going, to put on a new suit, a new face, slip into legality like a second skin.

There’s no light in the room, but his phone glows on Ellie’s side table, lights up a picture of her and Mya at the beach, pressed together and grinning into the sun; Ellie’s dimples deep and sun-bright. It nearly feels like he’s still dreaming, even as he reaches for his phone.

“’Lo,” he mutters, blinking up at the ceiling, Ellie still curled up around him like a limpet, stuck to his front, their skin pressed together, her leg over his side.

“Buongiorno, figlio.”

Nico sighs, letting his eyes close. “Pop.”

“Papà,” his father says in his ear. “Suona molto meglio a modo mio.”

“In inglese, per favore. It’s too early for Italian.”

“Too early for New York in my ear,” his father says, his accent heavy. “ _Pop_. Like some fizzy drink.”

“Did you need something?”

His father is quiet, a low sigh in his ear. “There’s been some… developments in Siracusa.”

Nico’s eyes open, looking up at the dark ceiling, his father’s voice steady, too calm in his ear.

“The last full-blood Volante died last night.”

He looks down at Ellie, easing out of the tangle of their limbs, careful not to make a sound, hoping _she_ doesn’t make a sound, not with his father on the other side of the phone. But she doesn’t, nothing but a soft breath, a little frown, curling up tighter in the wake of his body as he stands.  “Marino told you?”

“Si. We knew it was coming.”

“Who’s taking over?” he asks, holding his phone between his shoulder and his cheek as he pulls on his pants.

“He didn’t know. Says there’s been… disagreements in Sicily. I invited the family to the opening next week, you should make it known his men will be in town.”

Nico sighs, his hands on his shirt buttons, eyes closing as he pauses. “His men or his sons?”

“Si.”

“I don’t want them in my city.”

“I know, Kolya, it is the way of such things. A better man would raise a better son, no?”

“Si, Papà.”

A soft laugh. “Si, figlio. Breakfast?”

“Ma’s, or yours?”

“ _Ay_. Mine, of course.”

After the quiet click of the disconnecting line, Nico stands in the middle of a dorm room, just him in the dark and his girl in her bed, her hand curled into the spot he left empty, her shoulder moving slightly as she breathes.

He debates waking her, pulling her out of sleep and pulling her into clothes with soft kisses, promising her breakfast and family and his hand in hers… Thinks about stealing her, about leaving a note for her mother, for Hethridge, _don’t come looking, you won’t like what you find._

_You should have hidden her better._

But there’s something a little fractured inside of him, felt it crack like the spidering break along a windshield right when he’d seen Ellie in Sergei’s car and her face was full of accusations and doubt. Felt it fragment more when she thought his perversions were for the _idea_ of what she was, when they were really just for _her_.

He has no idea how to reassure her, how to convince her… crouches down beside her bed, brushes her hair back from her face, thinks again about waking her up, even just to say goodbye. To make sure she’s okay… to tell her she’s going to be sore when she wakes up and he’d give anything to stay and just see it—

But he doesn’t have any words, doesn’t have it in him, thinks he spilled too much last night, cut himself bloody on all those fractured pieces he felt inside of himself and he just—

Just needs a fucking _moment._

So he tucks her in, and he remembers, in the photos Liam had taken for him, that there was a bottle of Tylenol on her desk. It’s still there, beside some pens and notebooks… and he thinks again about waking her, taking her home with him, leaving a note for Hethridge—

_She’s mine, she’ll never be yours._

Which is stupid, he knows. Ellie isn’t a child and there’s no fight to be had, just choices he has to let her make on her own.

He wants her to make her choice, but he’s a selfish man, he knows it. Knows he’s possessive and greedy— for her most of all.

And, most importantly, he doesn’t play fair.

It only takes a moment to leave two pills, to grab a water from the little fridge beside Mya’s desk. Thinks about leaving her a note, to tell her—

So many things.

He eases the key to his loft off his keyring, holding the others in his hand to keep the jingle of them quiet, watching the slow rise and fall of her shoulder as she breathes.

It only takes a moment to scrawl a note, to find some middle ground between telling her too much and understanding that he hasn’t been telling her enough.

It only takes a moment, and then he’s making himself move, slipping out the door, knowing the chances of any students being up at five-thirty are slim, knowing the security is his now, though he doesn’t plan on telling Ellie that he bought the security company and made sure the men working this campus understood that even if they saw him _, you don’t see me, you understand?_

He thinks she’s seen and heard enough about his work for today, she doesn’t need to know this yet. Not about what he’s willing to do to keep her safe. What he has done, already.

 

 

                But, the thought sits in him, all the things he isn’t telling her, as he nods at a passing security guard who does his best to look like he doesn’t notice Nico at all. He climbs into his car, doesn’t bother waiting for the heat to warm up before he’s heading off into the dark, turning east towards the family’s brownstone in Brooklyn.

Can’t help but think about Irina, about how she isn’t wrong, that this is his life, that he’s been doing nothing but sticking his head in the sand if he thought that he could keep all of it from Ellie. There’s an itch in him, one settling between the still jagged edges of all the things spilt between them the night before, an itch to go back to take back his key, to end it all now. To walk away for his own sake, because he is selfish and self-serving and he knows, just from that one moment last night when she said _were,_ past tense, like they were already a dead thing… he knows easily, readily, that losing her will kill him.

 But he’s greedy, too. And he’s terrified that having her is worth the heartache.

 

 

 

 

 

                “Ciao, Papà.”

The house already smells like coffee, peppers and sausage. He’s not even out of his jacket before he’s in the kitchen and stealing a piece of extra sausage off a plate by the stove.

“ _Kolya_ ,” his father admonishes, glaring at Nico’s theft, as he pours steaming milk into the two steaming mugs of coffee on the counter.

“Ma not here?”

“Cycling class. Frittata is almost ready, have a seat, stop stealing the sausage.”

He grins, stealing another piece before sitting down in the same spot he had taken next to Ellie when they were here last. Neither of them really fit at the table comfortably, his father one of the few people that Nico’s ever met to match him in height.

But it’s an odd thought, as he thinks about when Ellie was here, about how easily she fit, and then about a time when the table was meant more for the kids his siblings were, rather than whatever it is now; remembers when it was the usual place to find his brother and sister, when it was breakfast before school, quick dinners or a place for homework before work got in the way.

It seems so long ago, moving here. Nico had already been gone from home more often than he was there, so it never really felt like his home, even though he has a room, still the same from when they moved in when he was eighteen.

But the house is a base, a touchstone in the city, the first step they took out of what they were and into what they are now; he knows his parents have never even considered selling it.

“How’s your girl?”

 _Your girl._ He thinks he likes that more than he has any right to. Likes that there are people that know she belongs to him. Regardless of knowing anything else, to some… Ellie’s _his_.

“Going home for Thanksgiving.”

“Ah,” his father says from the stove, pulling out the cast iron pan, poking at the frittata before setting it on the stove top and turning to look at Nico. “She should be with family, no?”

“She has family, Pop,” Nico shrugs, brings his coffee to his lips to hide the irritation, though he doesn’t think he’s entirely successful. “She’s with her… with them.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

Nico grits his teeth, taps his finger on the side of his mug, an itch for violence. “Like I know I could make it look like an accident.”

His father smiles, something in his eyes that’s _proud._ Because he’d feel the same, Nico knows. You don’t touch what belongs to them.

“It’s her mother’s—”

“You call her that, _her mother?”_ Alessio asks, his dark eyebrows tilting up. “Is she not the same girl you knew, anymore?”

“Do you remember her?” Nico asks, lifting a brow.

His father makes a considering face. “Her father, some. Her… not beyond the name.”

“Seems habitual, know the child only by means of the father.”

His father waves a hand, “And some eclipse them, that too is the way of things, si?”

“Loren was… nothing, Papà, a mistake that—” _gave me something perfect._ “Worked out well, in the end.”

“No desire to attempt a reconciliation? To see if—”

Nico shakes his head, trying not to scoff. “She’s getting married. To Hethridge, remember?”

“And you’re the father of her child,” Alessio says as Nico watches him turn away, cut through the middle of the frittata, dividing the pan into four. One for his mother, he imagines, and Matteo, who scavenges food like a vulture, swooping from one family member to the next. “And you’re _you_. A foolish woman to turn you down, I think.”

“And a criminal,” Nico adds, meeting his father’s gaze when he looks at him over his shoulder, pausing while plating up two pieces. “And the man she hid a child from for seventeen years.”

Alessio shrugs, smiling crookedly, his beard a bit thicker than the way he normally keeps it, or maybe he just hasn’t trimmed yet today, as it’s still something more like _fucking_ _early_ and not a real breakfast time. “Details. And as far as I’m aware you’ve never been convicted, so what criminal would she know?”

Nico snorts, tilting his head back against the booth. “The fourteen year old one that boosted cars for fun. The seventeen year old who was helping his father take over Lower Manhattan?”

His father laughs, voice closer as he sets a plate down in front of Nico and then slips into the booth seat across from him. “I have trouble believing she wouldn’t be tempted by the man he became, if she were already attracted to the boy.”

Nico straightens, narrows his eyes at his father. “You don’t honestly think I’d want to _date_ her?”

Alessio shrugs, using the edge of his fork to cut into his frittata, steam rising up between them. “You don’t think Ellie has an interest in seeing her parents reunited?”

Nico laughs, the sound sudden and bright in the kitchen. Thinks about Ellie’s mouth on his cock, about his cum leaking out of her. About the needy, desperate sound of her asking him to fuck her. “No, Papà, I can promise you she doesn’t.”

Alessio considers him, looks down at his breakfast, back up to Nico. “Ah, well. An old man’s dream to see his son happy, married and with children. You cannot blame me, no?”

Nico shakes his head, sighing, smiling lightly. “I’ve got two of three, will that do?”

Alessio smiles, his eyes crinkling. “Si, Kolya, very much so.“

The kitchen goes quiet, Alessio sips his coffee, Nico reaches for his fork, digging into his frittata, trying not to think about Ellie in her bed, or that she’s probably still on his fingers, his cock, stuck to his skin because she fucking _squirted—_

He clears his throat, pushing the images away. “Who’s running Sicily?

His father chews, swallows. “At the moment, Gio, if the rumours are true.”

“Gio?” Nico asks, frowning. Alessio nods, reaching for his coffee, taking a sip. “Isn’t he nearly ninety?”

Another nod. “Si, far too old to become the next leader, especially in Sicily. A smaller area, perhaps. But not Siracusa.”

“I find it hard to believe that there are no Volante sons willing to take the position.”

“Willing? Yes. Able?” he lifts a hand, an indifferent, doubtful sort of flick. “An important distinction. I have heard there are some younger boys, but none capable, yet. They lost the top two within the last few months, they were not prepared as they should have been.”

“And why not let Gio serve as consigliere to whatever Volante boy they choose?”

“Because the most capable is the son of a cousin who does not even carry the Volante name.”

“And the Volantes have had Sicily for generations,” Nico nods before taking another bite.

“Yes.”

“And Italians love their traditions,” he drawls.

“Si,” his father smiles, crooked even beneath his beard. “We most certainly do.”

“And Marino?”

“I imagine he hopes to get one of his sons in the running. They are a very old family as well. If Uncle Gio decides that the Volante boy is not a worthy choice… then he will make the decision to elect another.”

“What do you think he’ll chose?”

Alessio shakes his head. “I have not spoken to my uncle in many years, since my father passed.”

“He did welcome you back.”

“He had no authority to do so. My father made that choice as Don. My cousin was next in line, and I am no longer a Volante. Gio could not change that.”

“As boss he could,” Nico says, watching his father’s face, watching the slow exhalation, the searching gaze.

“I made my choice, thirty four years ago, Kolya, and I have never, will never regret it. I am no longer a Volante.”

Nico nods. “Si, Papà … but do you think he’ll ask?”

A hesitation, a mouthful of coffee. “Yes. He might.”

“And what would happen if you said no?”

Alessio doesn’t answer, swallows his coffee, takes another mouthful of frittata. “ _When_ I say no… my father’s line ends. As it probably should, Kolya. As all things do, eventually.”

 

 

                When his mother arrives, looking just as put together as any Upper East Side woman walking Fifth Avenue, despite the yoga mat under her arm and the bright turquoise of her sneakers, she greets him with a kiss and steals the last of her husband’s coffee before meeting his mouth for a familiar, soft kiss.

It’s an image he holds in his mind, as he tells them about Zhurov, about Sergei and the Roastery, about taking Ellie to Elysium… and ignores the urge to spill his heartache, his wants, to seek approval from the only two people that he would care to have it from.

Wants to tell them about her, not the daughter she is, but the woman she is, the girl she is, really. Because he shouldn’t lie to himself about that.

Wants to tell them how she fits him, fits against him. What her smile does to him. How he thinks about what it would be like to keep her, until he’s greying like his father, until she’s softened like his mother. How he thinks he’s a fucking liar for ever pretending he didn’t want her in his life, in this life, even though he knows the risks and is terrified, fucking terrified to bring her into it.

“Let me bring her to some classes,” Illyana offers, tucked under his father’s arm. “Self-defense, just an hour or two a week, something to get her started.”

It’s a good idea, he knows, can see the agreement on his father’s face, the hopefulness on his mother’s.

Nico nods, already thinking of what else he should teach her, the idea spinning tighter and brighter inside of him: Ellie at his side, in his life, for years to come.

“Alright, I’ll ask her.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

               

 

 

                It’s torture.

There’s no other word for it.

The car ride to Oyster Bay isn’t quite as long as the ride to Lloyd Harbor, but from the first five minutes in the car Ellie knows she must be being punished for _something_ because it’s _torture_.

She’s wet and sore and every ache of her lower body is a reminder of the night before. Every twinge, throb, pulse inside of her sex makes her belly twist tighter like she’s one of those Christmas crackers you pull and twist until it— _pops._

She feels empty and wanting and needy. _Desperate_ even, for Nico. Hell, she thinks, just to get _off_. She’d settle for her own fingers at this point.

But instead she’s reassuring Paul that she’s _fine, really, just couldn’t sleep last night and I slept through my alarm. No, Mya already left, yes, I’m sure I’m feeling okay._

She isn’t sure if she’s more alarmed at just how _horny_ she is or more alarmed that she’s still fucking _slippery_ _wet_ while she’s sitting beside Paul _._ _Paul._

She bites back a groan, crossing her legs and trying not to whimper at the difference the pressure makes, like a cold hand on hot skin. Or maybe a hot hand on hot skin because it isn’t really _helping,_ it’s just _nice._

She wants to text Nico, tell him that she hates him, just a little, him and his ridiculous dick. Ri-dick-ulous dick. But he texts her first, to tell her to have a good day, that he’ll call her tomorrow morning before any of her family is up.

 _Ugh,_ she thinks and can’t stop the ache of her insides, the bruised sore feeling that makes her wet and achy at every thought, memory, imagining of Nico and his cock pushing into her, filling her, a perfect, painful sort of ache that makes her shift in her seat again, burning up with embarrassment when Paul looks at her and asks her again is she’s sure she’s alright.

 _No_ , she thinks, _I’m dying_. _Dying_. He broke me. _His cock’s too big,_ she wants to say, _but it’s perfect too, a perfect painful stretch, a perfect painful fullness…_

Ellie bites her lip, her phone tight in her hand and tries not to text Nico how much she hates him for it; all the way through the nearly two hour drive, until they’re finally crawling up the long driveway of Paul’s parents’ house and her mother is opening the front door, smiling and waiting for her.

“There’s my Peanut,” her mother hums into her hair, holding her tight as Ellie steps into her for a hug, already smelling like the scent of food that sneaks out of the house and into the cold air around them.

Paul’s hand touches her back, pushing them in a little as her mother hugs her. “Come on, it’s chilly out here.”

 

 

                Thanksgiving is a bustle of people Ellie really doesn’t know, has only ever seen them on holidays over the years since Paul and Loren became serious. Ellie spends most of the evening sitting with the younger kids, though she can’t be bothered to remember how they’re all related to Paul outside of just being related to him.

It’s easier though, to sit with the kids, half-watching the Macy’s Day parade playing on the tv and sporadically texting Mya whenever she can get away from her family too. There isn’t much else for Ellie to do but show one kid how to braid her hair, another how to retie his laces, or help them pick the colour for the spaceship in their colouring book, it takes her mind off the still-lingering bruised feeling between her legs, the little hollowed out ache that sits inside of her.

She’s tempted to text Nico but she isn’t sure what she wants to say, isn’t sure at all what to ask him, his key tucked into a pair of clean socks in the bottom of her bag. Every time she starts a text she hesitates, thinks none of what she wants to say sounds right when it’s just letters on a screen.

 

 

              Although, as the hours wear on, Ellie isn’t sure that ache is a physical thing, so much as a phantom one. It’s not for his cock, not really, but his hands, or his shoulder, the curve of his neck, the thump of his heart against hers. It makes her something a little bit like lonely, even when her mother comes to sit beside her just before dinner, her hand trailing through her hair, a glass of water in her other hand that she offers her, because Paul has her convinced that Ellie must be getting sick.

(Because she’s flushed and hot and stiffens up in hugs, but she can’t tell them it’s because she’s been turned on all day, can’t tell them she’s still dripping him, still hurting from her daddy’s cock.)

“I was thinking,” Loren starts, leaning against the back of the couch, pressed close to Ellie’s side in a familiar, easy way. “That we could spend the day together tomorrow? There’s this spa not far from here that Gloria has been telling me to try for awhile. We could get all pampered and pretty before the wedding?”

“Sure,” Ellie shrugs, trying not to think about anything but her mother and the kids around her. “If you wanted to.”

“I just…” she hesitates, looking at Ellie for long enough it makes her nervous, like maybe there’s something on her, maybe she smells like him, like that spiced warm, wonderful smell that Ellie finds in his clothes and on his skin, or maybe a sign, _I Got Fucked By My Daddy And I Like_ _It._ “I feel like we haven’t spent much time together since you went back to school—”

“It’s only November,” Ellie offers a weak smile, trying to ease the apology she sees in her mother’s face; feeling a sudden twinge of guilt, a roiling bit of shame for all the things she’s hiding, lying, tucking away in a sock, stuffed in the bottom of her backpack.

A whole other life, she thinks, one she wants so much it _hurts._

“Basically December.” Her hand strokes, she sighs, looking over Ellie’s face. “And with the wedding, and the honeymoon… I feel like I won’t see you until your birthday.”

“I’m okay, mom, really. Between school and work… Mya keeps me pretty busy, too.”

Loren laughs, nods. “I know you are, Peanut, but I still think it would be nice to spend some time together. Talk about some things. School, work, the wedding.”

“Sure, that sounds nice,” Ellie smiles just as she feels a little seep of something slick slide out of her and tries not to make a noise; pushing to her feet quickly. “I just uh, bathroom. Be right back.”

Down the hall and into the bathroom, Ellie groans into a towel, slumping against the vanity, pressing her thighs together and wincing at the slip-slide press of her skin and sex and underwear.

She wants to text him, to tell him how _impossible_ this is, to tell him she never wants to do this again, to tell him he needs to do this to her every time she leaves him. That it’s better to feel bruised by him for days that have nothing of his at all. 

But still. She can’t help but be a little bit bitter that she’s suffering here alone while he’s…

It’s a stomach-tensing little thought, a nerve-twisting idea that she doesn’t give herself a chance to second guess.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

                “No way, it’s all you,” Nico laughs, stepping away from the offered turkey baster as Liam looks at him with a hopeful eye. He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket as he leans against the kitchen counter, watching Liam baste the turkey under his mother’s instruction. Matty laughing, teasing him about shit rolling down hill.

“I’m never even going to cook a turkey in my fu— freaking life,” Liam complains as Nico thumbs his password in, laughing at the whine in Liam’s voice. “Ana, c’mon, you know I can’t cook.”

“You’re cooking right now, what are you talking about?” Nico laughs as his mother directs Liam to a missed spot, her eyes bright with humour. He’s only half listening to the chatter around him as he unlocks his phone, thumbing open Ellie’s message—

_Photo._

Of her underwear around her knees.

The sight of it travels through him like a bolt of hot electricity,  spreads from head to toe, settles in his cock and he pushes off the counter, already lifting his phone to his ear, hitting dial as he walks out of the kitchen.

It rings in his ear as he steps out onto the cold back deck, shutting the glass door behind him and hoping the cold will chase out some of that heat burning up inside of him like it’s notching along his spine and climbing higher and higher.

 _Pick up,_ he thinks. Hangs up and tries again, lets it ring and ring before a text comes through.

 

> E: Miss you.
> 
> N: Answer the phone.
> 
> E: Can’t talk. Too many people.
> 
> N: Ellie.
> 
> E: :)
> 
> N: I swear to God, pick up the phone.

He dials again. Disconnects before it goes to voicemail, the screen flipping back to her message, to her photo. The pale length of her thighs, legs spread just enough to keep her underwear caught at her knees, the fabric soaked, _soaked_ a deeper blue along the seat of it. But it isn’t really what catches his eye, it’s the white, thicker slick of his cum, shining along the centre.

Leaking out of her.

It only really hits him then, that she wouldn’t have had much time to clean herself up, that she probably wouldn’t even fucking think to slip her fingers inside herself and clean his cum out of herself because she’s never been with anyone but him. Never had anyone inside of her but him. Never gotten fucked and filled by anyone else. That he’s never fucked her and sent her off, never come inside her and left her. Has always been there to see it, to watch the little flush, scrunch of her nose, shift of her body when she feels him leak out.

 _Jesus Christ,_ he curses, glances back at the glass doors, making sure no one is paying too much attention to him; it’s not a rare sight, after all, he takes phone calls all the time.

 

> N: You fucking brat.

When she doesn’t answer, Nico is stuck, leaning against the balcony railing, the cold air pushing through his clothes, trying to will his reaction away, to will his arousal down, to think about anything other than gathering up that cum and shoving it back inside of her.

It doesn’t work as well as he’d like, but when Liam steps out with Matty and Sophie and they light a blunt, Nico thinks maybe easing the edges of his mind a little bit might lower the impulse, the deadly need to track his girl down and bring her home.

He could make it look like an accident, he knows.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

                There’s a new split, a slowly growing line between who she was and who she is. She feels it more and more as the night goes on, like a piece of paper being split down the middle.

Ellie hovers on that border between being considered an adult and being seen as a child. She’s seated next to the kids along the long length of the Hethridge dinner table even as she’s got cum leaking out of her, as her phone vibrates from another missed call at her side, as she’s pink-cheeked thinking about teasing him, _excited_ about every vibration, the texts, the—

_You fucking brat._

She feels left out of conversations as the night goes on, too old to talk to the kids poking and teasing each other and too young to slip into the conversations about business, money, family that are being held on the other side of her mother and Paul.

It’s made worse, somehow, by sending that text. Feels so out of place she _itches_ with it. Wants to tell them she’s not a child, that she’s old enough to make her own choices. Wants to ask her mother if she forgot all the years they spent taking care of each other, when Ellie was old enough to work, to live in the city, to be safe on her own and now—

 _Now_ she’s a _kid_?

But she doesn’t. She thinks about Nico as she pushes turkey through the shine of gravy on her plate; trails spirals of it with the tines of her fork, stretching out from the pool of it near her squash.

It’s an odd thing to think about, to wonder about feeling like an adult when your really stuck more in the role of a child. To think about the choices you make, the life you lead, the life you _want—_

All while sitting next to your mother while you’re leaking, dripping, still achy from getting fucked just hours before.

She hides a smile, tilts her head, drops her hands to her lap to twist them into her dress hem. Thinks about texting him back but she likes the idea of his frustration, likes the idea of being able to goad him—

Wonders about it, her mind rolling through ideas like spinning cotton floss, sticky sweet with her imaginings. All the fantasies a girl’s mind can come up with, twist into a syrupy need whenever she touches herself.

Wants to bring all of that into real life, to twist it into Nico’s ear and see what he’d be into. To learn more about what he’s into, because no matter what he said last night, no matter if he wants to say it’s all just business… there has to be things he’s _into._ Things he gets off to. Things he wants to do to her the way she thinks about doing things with him.

She almost wishes she took up his offer to see more of Elysium, wonders if he’d take her back, wants to see more of it, to see what it is, exactly. To see what he does there. If he really doesn’t have much to do with it, like he said, or if it’s something he _was_ into, but isn’t now?

There’s still a little bit of fear in her that she’s too inexperienced for him, that all this sweet sort of fucking might be… be _boring_ to him, that she might not be as good as what he’s had before.

But she can learn, she thinks, bites her lip and takes a too large mouthful of water, feeling that slow thrumming warmth filling her up the longer she thinks about Nico and sex and all the things she’d rather be doing.

She can learn, she knows she can.

 

 

                 After pie, Ellie excuses herself from the evening, pressing a kiss to her mother’s cheek, saying goodnight to Paul and his parents, stepping over some of the kids spread out on the floor, being kept quiet with glowing tablets or quietly beeping, jingling games.

In the spare room, that somehow, in the three years since Paul and her mother got together, has become Ellie’s room at the Hethridge’s, Ellie faceplants into the bed, biting back a groan and a building need to sink her fingers beneath her dress hem and relieve that steady growing itch.

But just as her hips shift, just as she’s sliding her hand down, her mind on the thick of Nico’s arm holding her knee up and wide open, the tense of his shoulder, the flex of his hips, how small she felt beneath him, his weight heavy over—

There’s pounding outside in the hall and her door bursts open, followed by two bouncing kids, leaping on her bed.

 _Yeah_ , she thinks, and can hear Nico in her head, his smile crooked, his hair mussed, the very first time he really touched her.

_This is cruel, unusual punishment for wanting to fuck you._

 

 

                But later, later she strips off her clothes and bites her lip, feels her insides trill at the still slow-seeping leak of Nico’s cum in her underwear mixing with the shine of her own arousal, slicking the cotton. In the shower, she breathes out, doesn’t even bother soaping up before she’s sinking her fingers between the slippery hot heat between her legs and rubbing her clit, hard, too-fast, too-desperate for just a little bit of relief.

(If she chokes out a steam-filled _daddy,_ there’s no one there to hear it.)

 

              In her bed, she scrolls through pages and pages on kinks, things she thinks she might be into, things she knows she won’t be. Things that make her pulse tick up, things that leave her lip curling at just the idea… but mostly, she thinks about what Mya said that afternoon before they went to Aura.

_You want to call him Daddy and get spanked and fucked and be told you’re his good—_

And _yeah_ , Ellie thinks, as she presses her thighs together, her mind caught on how it felt to be stuck, trapped beneath him as he fucked her, _yeah,_ she wants that.

Nico texts again, a short, _are you still up?_ But Ellie’s too caught up in fantasy, in the stroke of her fingers between her legs, the heat of her clit, the bright-sting of an ache, that little bit of emptiness deep inside her whenever she tries to slip her fingers inside of herself. Bites her lip, thinks about the stretch, the flex of his shoulder as her mind changes his pace into something rougher, heavier, harder—

Spins a fantasy that’s hard-edged and filled with Nico telling her _look_ _how_ _good you’re taking it, baby—_ while he holds her down.

 

 

 

 

 

                The next morning, Ellie wakes to two missed calls from Nico and frosted, white-tipped world; the sun glinting off the expanse of the Hethridge property as it rises over the tree line.

She yawns, shivers, stumbles her way through a shower, thinking about calling him back, about what she’ll say about teasing him, if she’ll admit to it or play at—

But there’s a knock on her door, just as she’s stepping out into her room; Loren leans in, still in a satiny robe, but showered, her hair half-dry.

“Oh good you’re up,” she smiles, leaning against the doorframe. “Want to go out for breakfast?”

Ellie glances at her phone, swallows away her irritation. “Sure, sounds good.”

 

 

 

                At the small restaurant, Ellie settles into the booth seat and lifts her eyebrows when her mother orders ginger tea when the waitress comes by.

 “You sure there’s nothing wrong with _you_?” Ellie asks, her eyebrows melding into her hairline. “Coffee’s like, your best friend.”

Loren smiles tightly, fiddling with the napkin wrapped cutlery. “Listen, Peanut, I really wanted to talk to you about the wedding and… and the name change.”

 Ellie bites her cheek, looking away from her mother’s eyes. “The adoption, you mean.”

“The adoption, yes. I know—” she hesitates, pulls in a breath. “I know you aren’t thrilled at the idea, I know you think it’s… I know I spent a long time telling you that it was just going to be you and me—”

“That’s not—” Ellie starts, cuts off, thinks, _that’s not it, I just want you to say his name, just once. Give me that, at least._ “I just don’t get why it needs to be an adoption, like… the name change is one thing, but he’s not... he’s not my _dad_.”

“El… honey, Paul cares about you, he worries about you, he isn’t great at showing it— I mean, look at his parents, they aren’t the most… emotionally connected couple, you know? He’s just not good at showing what he feels. But he loves having you in his life.”

“But you always said—”

“I know what I said,” Loren sighs. “And you don’t need a dad, I know you don’t. Hell, I don’t _need_ a husband. But I love Paul and I want to be with him and I want— I want all of us to be in this together. To be one family, together.”

“I just don’t get why he needs to _adopt_ me. I’m basically eighteen, mom. It means _nothing_.”

“Then why don’t you want to sign it?”

“Because—” _because he’s not my dad_ , she thinks. _Because I know my dad, I have him, and_ he’s _mine._ _Paul’s not mine, he’s yours and I don’t need him._

“Can you just think about it, for me, Peanut? How much it would mean to me to have all of us be a family together, to grow together—”

“Grow?” Ellie frowns, blinking at the words. “Are we moving again or something?”

Her mother pulls in a breath, gives Ellie a smile that’s somehow sad and glowing, all it once. “I’m pregnant, Ellie.”

“You’re— _what—_ ” Ellie’s mouth opens, snaps shut, staring at her mother as she tries to understand the words and what they mean.

“Pregnant, just a few weeks, we haven’t told anyone, yet. You’re the first. I wanted— needed you to know first.” Loren reaches across the table, her hand settling warm over Ellies. “You’re my _Peanut_ , Ellie, my baby girl, I just want you with me, wherever we go from here.”

There’s a tremble in her lip, her eyes glossy, and Ellie feels that same reaction swell in her, an instinct, an impulse, at the sight of her mother’s tears, her shaky voice, her _please._

“I want us all to be a family, I need you with me, Peanut, I can’t… I can’t do it without you being part of this.”

 _Oh_ , Ellie thinks, feels stuck still, like time slowed around them and she’s nothing but a knobby-kneed kid waiting for her mother to get home from work or school, that first sight of her in the driveway, the key in the lock—

 _Oh,_ Ellie thinks.

The waitress interrupts them, setting their drinks between them, her mother sniffs, turns her head to wipe her cheek. Ellie licks her lips, pulls in a breath and orders two eggs, a pancake stack and a side of bacon, because they’ve always ordered the same thing, whenever they splurged to go out, for as long as she can remember.

The waitress leaves, tucking her notebook into her apron, Ellie watches her go, watching her mother cup her tea mug. “Are you happy?”

Her mother smiles, wet and wide. “So happy, Peanut.”

“I’m… happy for you,” Ellie stumbles, trying to smile back, feels like her brain is lagging, like _pregnant_ is slowly seeping in, soaking her mind, altering her reality. “I’m—” _shocked, surprised, relieved?_ “Surprised. Do you know what it is, yet?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, mom, I— I’m happy for you, really. I didn’t think you and Paul—” it hits her then, that for all she’s known Paul and her mother are getting married, that they’re happy, it’s never occurred to her to imagine their lives, not really. That the wedding, the relationship, the adoption _,_ wasn’t just something happening in her peripherals, not something that shifted her life… but rather, her _mother’s_ _life_.

It’s a sudden, tilting sort of thought that leaves her a little bit twisted up— she’d been more than able to think about Nico and dating and sex, been able to imagine him and her, all the things they do and can do together… but never really thought of her mother in the same vein, even though they’re exactly the same age.

 _Oh,_ she thinks.

It’s a strange realisation, to know that in her mind, her mother is _her mother_ , but Nico, even knowing that he’s… he’s her _dad—_ he’s been kept out of that category, no matter how many times she calls him _Daddy,_ Nico is _hers_ to want, to keep, to _choose_.

Her mother was just _Mom_ for so long, Ellie thinks that thinking of her as someone who wants to live her own life, just like Ellie wants to, never occurred to her at all.

“Are you okay with this, El?” Loren asks, looking worried and hopeful and _eager_ for Ellie to be okay, to be happy, to be with her. “Do you understand what it would mean to me if we were all one family together?”

Ellie opens her mouth, shuts it, looking at her mother’s hand over hers on the table. “Yeah, I am. I want you to be happy, Mom. And… and I’ll— I’ll really think about the adoption, okay? I understand why you want it.”

“Paul does too, I promise. It was his idea, at first. When we were talking about marriage and the name change… it all just made sense, especially after I found out about the little Bean.”

“Bean?” Ellie frowns.

Loren smiles. “Well, you’re my little Peanut, this one will be our little Bean.”

 

 

 

_Our little Bean._

It isn’t until after spa, after being pampered and rubbed and steamed, that Ellie really thinks about what all of this might mean.

She watches her mother and Paul together at dinner, _really watches_ them for the first time. The way Paul looks at her, the way her mother smiles at him, the way they take up each other’s space…

It isn’t until she’s watching her mother touch her stomach absently, Paul’s eyes following, that she really realises what her mother’s happiness means.

_Our little Bean._

The words in her head shift into Nico’s tilted scrawl in that note.

_What’s mine is yours._

 

 

 

 

 “What do you think?” she asks Mya, as the other girl stretches out on her bed, already in pyjamas.

“What do _you_ think _?_ ” Mya shoots back, her eyebrows high.

“I’m happy for her, really. I’m not like… mad or anything. I know my mom spent a long time focused on me. She deserves to like, do things right, you know?”

“You mean marriage and babies, not seventeen and single mom-ing it.”

Ellie snorts, “Yeah, pretty much.”

“So why don’t you look happy then?”

“I— I am happy, but I think… Is it bad that I’m happy because she’s going to have this… you know, _life_ she’s always wanted and that means that I get to have more, like, freedom to live my own life?”

“With Nico?”

Ellie nods, dropping her chin on her knee. “Yeah. I mean, I am happy for her, Mya. But I’m also like, _relieved._ The adoption makes sense now, you know? It wasn’t just for no reason, my mom just wants me to be a part of her new… well, family, I guess.”

“You are her family, El.”

“No, I know,” Ellie huffs. “I’m not saying it right. I’m happy she’s happy because I feel like it’s permission to make myself happy? Like, she’s moving forward into this new, like, life and I can do the same?”

“With Nico?”

“Yes,” Ellie laughs, dropping her forehead to her knee and smiling. “With Nico. I think we’re… I mean, he makes me happy, Mya, and it’s not easy but it’s so _good._ ”

“I’d be disappointed if it wasn’t _good_ ,” she smirks.

“Haha,” Ellie drawls, before smiling wide. “And it’s not _good_ … it’s _fucking amazing._ ”

“Oh, don’t brag,” Mya huffs, rolling back on her bed. “So, are you going to tell her?”

“What? No!” Ellie blurts, glances at her door, wincing at the pitch of her voice. “Are you crazy? He’s thrity-four, my mom would kill me. She’d kill _him_.”

Mya laughs, “Well, you did just say you were both moving forward so…”

“Uh yeah, but I meant it more like my mom will be a newly married woman with a baby on the way, which gives me more room to be a bad daughter and keep fucking my thirty-four year old boyfriend in peace.”

They both laugh. “I’m glad you’re so optimistic. I know you hated the idea of the adoption before.”

Ellie shrugs. “Yeah, but… I mean, I’m still thinking about it, but I think I will, for her, you know? It really doesn’t have to mean anything to anyone, it’s just for her, I think. Maybe Paul, I don’t really understand that one yet. But still. I think I will just to make my life easier. Which is totally selfish, I know, but… but Mya, I—”

She drops her head down again, pulling a breath, thinking about Nico, about his bed, about his hands and his voice and the way he says _sweetheart_ and _baby_ and _princess._

“I really, really like him. I can’t… I can’t imagine not being with him.”

“I told you, lock him down while you can, El. Even if it’s just for a trophy husband,” Mya teases, her smile bright in the shine of her laptop.

“What if I want to be the trophy wife?” Ellie laughs, watching Mya shift in her bed to get more comfortable.

“Nah, you’re not the trophy wife type. Maybe sugar baby?”

“No way,” Ellie denies, laughing. “It’s not like that anyway. He gave me a key to his place.”

“He didn’t!” Mya gasps, her eyes wide. “Really?”

Ellie nods, trying to hold in her smile, the swell of satisfaction she gets just telling someone about it. “Yeah, he did. Told me he wanted me there, even if he wasn’t there.”

She wants to tell her why, wants to tell her he left it on a note in her dorm after her fucking her so deep she still feels it, still aches from it. That he gave her his key in a way that was more like giving a piece of himself.

_What’s mine is yours._

But she doesn’t, she thinks some things are meant for her and him only. Some things are theirs and theirs alone.

“So have you called him daddy yet?” Mya asks, her grin wide and pleased and a little bit leering. Ellie flushes, looking away. “You did! Oh my God. I love you. Did he like it? Was he into it? Has he spanked you? Have you done anything else?”

“Yeah, he likes it,” she laughs, bright, a bubble of joy inside her at talking about it, getting to talk about him like this. “I don’t know if he was into it before or not, but he… we’re both pretty into it. We haven’t really done anything else yet. I think—  we had an argument the other day— I was worried about him being with someone else?”

Mya frowns, her mouth opening, but Ellie cuts her off.

“He just has a lot more experience, you know, and he’s always like, so _careful_ with me—”

“Because you’re tiny, El, c’mon.”

Ellie shrugs. Fiddling with her hoodie string. “I guess. I was still caught on the idea of it though, that maybe he just wasn’t… I don’t know, satisfied? We’ve been very like, _vanilla?_ ”

“You called him daddy, that’s a little left of vanilla,” Mya offers with a smirk. “But I get it. What did he say?”

“Basically that I’m an idiot and he’s fucked up over me.”

“He said that? Fucked up over you?” Mya’s mouth parts, something melting inside of her eyes. “That’s so weirdly fucking romantic.”

Ellie scrunches her noise, making a noise in her throat. “I _know_. He said he’d rather cut his dick off than put it in anyone else.”

“Wow.” Mya exhales, blinking. “So you guys are like legit. Like hashtag bae.”

Ellie laughs, flushing. “I— yeah, I think so. I _really_ like him, Mya.”

Mya smiles, softer. “I know, El. It’s obvious…. I still wanna meet his brother, though. Like, honestly, hook a girl up?”

She pouts, Ellie laughs, her head tilting back.

 

 

 

 

                After they disconnect, Ellie reaches into her hoodie pocket, laying the small thing inside in front of her.

She stares at the little piece of silver gleaming against the flower-patterned quilt covering the bed. Nico’s note tucked into the back of her phone, right behind his picture. But the words are in her head, the slanting scrawl of his handwriting.

_What’s mine is yours._

It’s strange. Such a small thing to mean so much. To represent so much. It’s not just a key, not really, it’s Nico bringing her home drunk, feeding her pizza on his couch, taking her to a restaurant and then right back out again when he realised she wasn’t comfortable… it’s the basket of things he bought her slowly migrating across his bathroom counter, two toothbrushes in a holder that only had one that first day…

It’s not just a _key._

But it’s also a gun in the dark, Nico slipping back into his loft at three in the morning. It’s a man in a coffeeshop, a fake police badge, a lie on a lie on a lie.

It’s her mother spending seventeen years telling her that this man, the man Ellie thinks she lo—

It sits inside of her, the idea of what she feels, like the ache of him still throbbing between her thighs. Feels bruised up, marked up, _his._

It sits inside of her, a greedy, selfish thought, a shameless, hopeful bit of fucking _relief_ at her mother’s words.

_Our little Bean._

Our. It catches inside her more than anything else, this shared word and what it means to Loren and Paul and, by extension, to her. That _our_ is a new life, a new chapter, a page torn out of a notebook.

_What’s mine is yours._

It’s a selfish thought, but it’s true all the same.

Ellie knows what she wants, who she wants, and she knows what she’s willing to do to get it. Even if that means signing her name on some adoption papers or the fuzzy memory of Nico saying _Mexico_ and _beach_ and _ocean._

She eyes her phone just when it buzzes and Nico’s name pops up like he could sense her thoughts.

 

> N: Free to talk?

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

> E: Do you have Skype?

Nico blinks at the sudden text, coming in after her _Yup, I’d love to,_ just as his thumb moves to hit the phone icon. He pauses, types back instead:

 

> N: I have Skype for business.

Ellie’s chat box appears and disappears, he waits, leaning back in his office chair, eyeing the screen, wondering where she’s going with this. Been strung tight with an itch he can’t scratch since she sent that photo.

 

> E: Just for business?

He huffs a laugh, reaching for his drink before responding, something warming inside of his belly, been looking at that fucking photo for a day and a half, jerked off to it in the shower this morning, still at the townhouse after Thanksgiving. Felt eighteen and desperate. A quick, rough-edged grip on his cock, thinking about his girl taking that photo, about the pretty fucking pink spread of her beneath him, flushed from cunt to cheeks. The clenching fucking tightness of her _squirting—_

 

> N: Did you want to skype?
> 
> E: If you do?

He debates it for only a second, because he wants to see her, he always wants to see her… but, seeing her and not being able to touch her is… torture. Really. Something more like masochism than relief.

 

> N: What’s your email address for it?

It doesn’t take long to do, types her email in, sends an invitation and feels weirdly nervous waiting for her icon to appear. It sits oddly in his stomach, makes his palms a little itchy, makes his chest a little tight… thinks he still has her in his mind, angry at him, upset with him, saying things in past tense.

He rolls his shoulders, drops his head back and closes his eyes, listens for the notification of a new contact while trying to push that weird feeling out of his chest. When the _ping_ come in, he sits straighter, shifting and blowing out a breath before he hits accept.

Leaning a little on one side on the arm of his chair, he reaches for his drink again, taking a too large mouthful as he looks at her little icon, it’s her smiling, but it’s too small to make out more than that, and before he can click on it, Ellie’s prompting a video call.

The image blurs a little, and then settles, and Ellie’s there, is an oversized hoodie, cotton shorts and

knee highs, because she likes to torture him, _apparently_.

It's a little sick, the things she does to him.

But he only catches a flash of her thighs before it’s nothing but the bottom arch of her feet over her shoulder, lying stretched out on her belly on a white duvet patterned with tiny flowers and vines.

“Hey,” she grins, a pink little flush to her cheeks, her hoodie bunching up around her neck, dropping low enough in the front that he can guess she doesn’t have anything on underneath.

He’s kind of curious if it’s even hers, and is irritated when the thought of it being someone else’s makes him jealous.

“Hi,” he drawls, ignoring that thought entirely; smiling crookedly and tilting his head back a little, not really bothering to hide that he’s looking at her. “You tryin’ to kill me, baby?”

“Me?” she laughs, her toes curling, her dimple deep. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Uh-huh,” he says slowly, watching her. “So you weren’t trying to drive me crazy, sending me that photo?”

Ellie pushes her lips together, shifting. “You left me like that, I thought it was only fair.”

Only fair, he thinks, only _torture_. “You didn’t like it? Seemed like it wasn’t just me soaking your underwear.”

Ellie bites her lip, looking down, her lashes long and dark before she looks at him, her cheeks flushed. She squirms.

It’s fucking distracting.

“No, it definitely wasn’t,” she says, something a little breathless in her voice, her toes curling and easing again. He wants to ask her if she’s uncomfortable, if he’s making her uncomfortable because she’s at home... but then, she sent that photo during _Thanksgiving dinner_. “You gave me your key.”

A key, left on a note, scrawled in dark. On paper torn from a schoolgirl’s notebook sitting on a schoolgirl’s desk, left on that same schoolgirl’s bedside table beside two Tylenol and some water because he fucked her and he knew she’d be sore… because she’s too small for his cock.

(And yet…that the same schoolgirl had squirted on his cock as he rooted inside her and he hasn’t stopped looping that image, that memory, that fucking _feeling_ of it inside his head…)

“The key,” he says, and blinks away the pretty pink clench of her cunt and his cock pushing into it. “I want you there, Ellie. Whenever you want to be there. Even if I’m not there.”

Ellie nods, her lips twitching up before she bites her lip and squirms a little, ducking her head.

“Did you take the pills I left?”

He feels like an asshole looking at her know, how much he enjoys her discomfort, the obvious soreness he knew she would feel… but she’d been asleep and him being there was stupid in so many ways that go beyond anything as simple as her just wanting him there.

Ellie nods, her toes curl in her socks, her legs crossing.

“Did I hurt you too much?” He should have stayed, he knows, should have insisted on taking her back to his loft; should have run her a shower, eased her muscles, gotten her off again but just with his tongue. Kept her loose and wet and orgasm-melted.

“No, I’m—” she shifts, dropping her head to the duvet, her legs crossing, uncrossing behind her, her calves flexing in the grey socks.

He should have stayed, he thinks, he knew she’d be sore, there’s no way she wouldn’t have been—

“I’m so _horny,_ ” she whines into the duvet, her voice cotton-muffled, strained, her toes curling…

 _Oh,_ he thinks, as the realisation passes through him the same way her voice does, muffled and slow… his cock swells the same way; a warmth, a want, a wrought-iron hardness built from nothing but her voice.

“It won’t go away,” she whines, rubbing her face into the duvet like she’s a cat looking for something to rub against, and _Christ, that image— memory_ even, of Ellie riding his thigh, squirming against him…

“I feel it every time I move, Daddy—”

_Daddy._

_Fuck me,_ he thinks, dragging a hand over his jaw and his mouth, cock thickening, trapped in the tight, tailored lines of his pants. There’s something different about her saying it when it isn’t just in the moment. Dirtier, somehow, hearing those two syllables slide out of her mouth when its not moaned, pulled out of the arch of her body when he’s fucking her.

Indecent, even. Criminal. Fucking _sadism_ to see her squirming on a bed and watch her fucking toes curl through a camera lens. Toes shouldn’t turn him on.

“And _sitting_ _down—_ ” she whines into the duvet.

“What about sitting down, baby?” Because he’s a fucking masochist, _apparently_.

Ellie shakes her head and Nico waits, watching her toes, her calves, the soft of her socks disappearing beyond the line of her body and the bulk of her sweater.

She breathes out, turns her cheek, before shifting on the bed again, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, hands lost to the sleeves of her hoodie.

“I’m _sore_ ,” she says tucking her hand under her cheek to look at him, her face flushed, her lips parted, eyes dark even in the glow of the screen. “And I’m wet, like all the time, and sitting down makes me want to— it’s driving me _crazy_.”

 _This fucking girl,_ he thinks, but he knows what she wants. Or needs, rather, he can imagine her, sitting, texting him, squirming and wet and desperate, chewing her lip and debating, debating to type that: _do you have Skype?_

He knows what she needs. What she’s asking for, even if she isn’t using her words.

“Oh, _princess_ ,” he exhales, warm and soft and slow; ignoring the weight of his own arousal; too focused on the pink curve of her cheek, the heavy fan of her lashes, the soft red pout of her bottom lip. “Did Daddy’s cock leave you feeling empty?”

Ellie flushes brighter, her ankles crossing, a shift against the bed that has to be her pushing her thighs together as she hitches a little noise like the smallest, most desperate whimper.

“Hm?” he urges, when she doesn’t say anything. “You gotta use your words, baby.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Have you touched yourself?”

A nod.

“How many times?”

Four fingers pushing out of her hoodie sleeve. Nails shiny and slightly glossy, he wonders if she painted them or her mother took her out. (And God, he thinks, he isn’t sure he can survive the idea of his girl sitting there, hurting from his cock and pretending like she isn’t soaking through her underwear while she smiles, sits, chats to her mother who has no idea just how desperate her baby girl really fucking is.)

“ _Poor thing_ ,” he hums, ignoring the weight of his own arousal thrumming inside of him and building along his spine. “Is this why you wanted to call, you needed your Daddy to help you get off?”

Ellie hesitates, and then nods, shifting on the bed.

“Words, baby.”

“Yes,” she whimpers, her shiny nails curling into the duvet. “Wanted to see you.”

“Just see me, hm? You don’t want me to tell you what to do? You don’t want me to tell you to stick your fingers down your shorts and show me how wet you are?”

Ellie nods, makes a noise in her throat, high, twisted, like brittle sugar breaking apart. _Sweet thing,_ he thinks, his sweet little brat wanting things when she isn’t even really sure what she really needs. Or how to ask for them.

“Words, Ellie, or I stop. Last warning.”

“Yes,” she chokes out, a quiet little noise as she turns her head back into the duvet, body stretching out, condensing, a little rise of her ass, the little cotton sleep shorts bunched up wrinkled. “I want that, Daddy.”

Nico leans back in his chair, watching her, giving her a minute— giving himself a minute; watching her body shift, her knee coming up along her side like she really, truly, can’t stay still.

He would have fucking killed to see her at a dinner table. Sitting there, sore from his cock, aching with it, dripping from it, pink-cheeked and red-mouthed, trying to be a good girl and not the desperate little thing she is.

“Let me see how wet you are, princess.”

Ellie starts to lift up and it only takes him a second to realise she’s literally going to show him— going to strip naked in front of camera—

 _Christ,_ he thinks, she really needs to turn eighteen.

“No, baby, just with your fingers.”

Ellie stops, on one elbow, her other hand planted on the bed, and the look she gives him is pouty and annoyed, ready to refuse, to argue, to strip naked and let him see everything. And God, he can’t really believe that there was ever a time he thought she was nothing but a too-sweet girl, a too-good girl, a girl he shouldn’t touch.

“You ever done this before, Ellie?” he asks, because he needs to. Needs her to understand it too. “Taken orders?”

She shakes her head. Nico tilts his head in warning. Ellie licks her lips, her voice quiet, but sure. “No.”

He didn’t think so; can imagine she was the one climbing on a boy’s lap, eager to try things, eager to feel things, but always, always ready to say stop.

He still kinda wants to punch them all in the face, even if she’s right, it doesn’t matter who she’s been with, or what she’s done… she’s his _now._

“Lie back down, push your laptop a little farther back.”

She does, sinking back to the mattress, the duvet a soft _hiss_ beneath her hand and elbow. She shrinks a little, the camera showing more of her body, more of the pale coloured room behind her, a yellowish light coming from a bedside table.

“Have you done this before?” she asks, dragging her bottom lip into her mouth, curling her hands in her sleeves, the overlong drape of her hoodie.

“Not this exactly, no,” he smirks, watching her face, the still flushed look of her awkward, sweetly shy wants. “Now sink those little fingers down between your legs and show me how wet you are.”

Ellie breathes out, licks her lips again, her knees spreading just enough he can see the side of her thigh, the bunched-up hem of her soft-grey knee-highs, the little lift of her ass as she shifts just enough to sink her hand down between her body and the duvet with a gentle shift of fabric against fabric.

She bites her bottom lip, a little puff of air, and then she’s bringing her hand back up. She splays her fingers, all shiny and wet, a rope of slickness connecting between her fingers before it droops, drips down them.

Yeah, he thinks, he’s a fucking masochist.

He’d kill to get his mouth on her. Lick off her fingers, bury his face between her legs, his tongue in her cunt… eat her out until he’s got a fucking bellyful of her.

“Put them in your mouth, baby,” he orders, his voice rougher than he thinks it should be. “I want you to know how sweet you taste to me.”

Ellie hesitates, her eyes flicking up to his, but she does it, a slow sink of the pad of her fingers over her lips, leaving a shiny trail, into her mouth, over her tongue, just like when she’d licked his cum off his fingers in the car; tongue hot, mouth wet and slick and—

 _God_ , he thinks. _This fucking girl._

A slick little _pop_ and Ellie’s fingers are wet, less slick, but her lips a little shinier instead, and she’s sinking her hand back down—

“Did I tell you to do that, princess?”

Ellie whines, her head dropping to the bed, curling her fingers into it, the other knotting into her sleeve. “ _Daddy,_ I need it.”

“I know, baby. I want you to put your hand between your legs, but I want you to keep them outside your shorts, okay?”

Ellie pouts, propping her head up on her folded arm, her lips soft, bratty as she looks at him, but sinks her hand back between her legs.

“Cup your pussy, princess, so your weight is on the heel of your palm.”

He watches her, sees the moment her weight shifts, her hips rising, ass tilting up as she gets her hand between her legs, as the weight of her lower body comes to rest just below her wrist, right against and above her clit.

Ellie breathes out, her eyes closing briefly before she blinks at him, waiting.

“Good girl,” he hums, trying not to shift in his chair, trying to ignore his cock, the weight of his arousal, his own need, sitting like a flame beneath his chest. “I want you to rub against yourself, baby, nice and slow for me like when you rode my thigh.”

Her hips tilt up, just the smallest little rise to her ass over her shoulder before she lowers her hips back down, rocking onto her hand. He wishes he could see it, could linger over her back and watch her, thinks maybe they’ll have to do this again… if she likes it by the end of it.

“How’s your weekend been at home, baby?” he asks, watching her face, her fingers tighten in her hoodie sleeve, her mouth parting as she rocks onto her palm.

She frowns, blinks, swallows. “Boring, Daddy,” she sighs, her eyes slipping closed as her hips rock.

“Eyes on me, princess.”

Ellie blinks, focuses on him, her body squirming behind her.

“That’s not nice, I’m sure your mother was happy to see you.”

Ellie nods, bites her lips, her ass rising and falling, cotton shorts bunching, Socked-feet strained out, pushing into her pillow. “Uh-huh.”

“You do anything with her?”

Ellie shakes her head, her fingers tensing and easing into the duvet beneath her, a noise of protest, denial, strained whine in her throat. He can imagine her hand, her shorts stuck to her cunt, getting wetter by the second.

“Breakfast, spa,” she forces out, bites her lip, scrapes white teeth over the plump of it. “Made another pie.”

“What’d you talk about?”

“ _Daddy,_ ” she complains, dragging out the sound of it, her ass pushing up, rolling back down… he can imagine the grind against her palm, seeking more pressure on her clit.

He tries not to gloat at the neediness, the bratty bit of desperation in her voice, but he smirks, his voice lower, knowing he shouldn’t tease her so much when she’s never done this before.  “She didn’t notice how needy her Peanut is, baby? How flushed and desperate you are? Practically gagging for it, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

She sucks in a breath, turning her face into her arm again, toes curling, knee coming up and sinking back down again. “ _God—_ ”

 “You tell her how you’ve been such a good girl for your daddy?” he asks, voice a little lower, a little rougher. “How good you take his cock?”

Ellie shakes her head, her breathing hitching, loud enough to hear through the screen. “Please, Daddy, _please—_ ”

He thinks _no_ , thinks, _she’s never done this before, be nice._ Thinks, _you’re mine, Ellie, I’d kill anyone who saw you like this._

 “Push your shorts aside, baby, put two fingers inside that sweet little cunt of yours. Just _two_. Don’t stop rubbing against your palm.”

Ellie nods, her knee spreading a little wider, leg strained, toes digging into the pillow, pushed against a white metal headboard.

“That’s it, baby,” he forces out, tries not to groan as her ass arches a little higher before coming back down, her hand knotted into the sheets, cheeks flushed, body squirming against her own palm. “How’s that feel?”

Can imagine the crook of her fingers, knuckles already shiny, slick and sticky inside of her, tucked in that fucking too-tight, too-sweet, too-perfect heat of her cunt.

Ellie sighs, a little pleased sound in her throat as her fingers sink inside of herself on every rocking grind. “Not as good as yours, Daddy.”

“You like Daddy’s fingers, Princess?” A nod. “You like how big they are inside you? How tight you are around them?”

Ellie whines, mouth parting, he swears he can hear the sound of her fingers, hooked inside of her. “Uh-huh.”

He lets her rock, lets her squirm, lets himself watch, just for another moment.

“Third finger, baby. Nice and slow for me.”

And she does it, squirms a little against the bed; a shift, a whole body tremble as she works another finger in. Ellie’s hand clutches at the duvet, pushing herself back on her own fingers, her face pushing into the bed as she moans, all high and desperate.

“Hook your fingers inside that pretty little pussy for me, baby. Just like I do, nice and tight.”

A hitch clawing close to a sob in her chest, the _daddy_ a torn sound out of her body. Nothing more than trembling limbs, tensing, quivering muscles, toes curling, thighs widening, pushing back together as she rocks herself closer to the edge.

“Good girl,” he hushes, hand white knuckled on the arm of his chair to stop himself from palming his own cock to ease the ache. “You’re always so tight on my fingers, I wasn’t even sure if my cock was going to fit inside you. Thought I was going to break you, baby.”

Ellie rolls her cheek against the bed, he can’t see anything but her teeth buried in her bottom lip, the fan of her lashes, dark smudges against the flush, the burn in her cheeks.

“But you take it so well, princess. You like being too small for me, huh?”

A nod, her fist clenching in the duvet, her voice high and breathless. “So much, Daddy.”

“You like that you’re sore after I fuck you? Gets you all wet and desperate, doesn’t it?”

“Feel empty, Daddy.”

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, chokes on her words, the memories in his head, the image of her in front of him. His cock throbs, thinks about filling her up, about the stretch of her cunt around his cock, about how she fucking _squirted_ from him hurting her (just a little, just a sweet sort of hurt of his cock burying so deep inside her.)

“Fourth finger, baby,” he says roughly, so near a growl, so nearly undone himself. Has to push a hand over his cock, a heavy, tense weight to push the rising ache inside of him.

Ellie moans, a long, whiny, desperate sound that makes him grit his teeth, to push that want out of his chest and into his words. “You’re doing so well, just one more finger, you just need a little more, don’t you?”

A jerky nod, her lips red, mouth open and panting against the sheets, hoodie rucked up, can see it bunched, the arch of her back whenever her hips lift, the sweet swell of her ass, the tilt of her spine.

“What are you thinking about, baby?”

Ellie pants, bites her lip to hold in a moan, hitches a noise all low and desperate. “You, Daddy.”

He swears he can hear it, that wet little squelch of a noise just beneath her breathing, the soft sound of her limbs against the duvet, the caught, hitching moans she’s trying to bury into the bed.

“Yeah?” he says and tries not to sound as fucking desperate for her as he feels, even though he feels the too-rough pitch of his own voice. “You thinking about my cock inside of you?”

A nod, another hitch. “Hurts— but—”

“But you like it, huh?”

Another nod, jerky as she pushes her face into her arm again. “Yes, Daddy.”

God, he thinks, trying not to think about how far Lloyd Harbor is, how long it would take to get there. If he could slip through that window too…

“That’s it, princess, you’re going to come, aren’t you? Going to squeeze around your fingers just like you do around my cock.”

She’s a fucking sight, he thinks, drinks her in like a parched man wandering a desert; every bit of her, toes to thighs, to ass, to rolling, squirming hips… bunched sweater, trembling limbs, clenched fingers, wrinkling sheets… pink cheeks, soft mouth, his name—

Twists those sounds into something as quivering, slick and desperate as her body, fingers, _cunt_ is… all while he watches her tremble apart, going tense before liquefying and every squelch of her fingers, tucked inside of herself, her fingers still shifting, is a spark inside of him. Like she’s flint and he’s a flame, coming alive between her edges.

“You’re my girl, you know that, don’t you, Ellie?”

Ellie eases, melts into the bed, her breath puffing out of her mouth, bitten red and looking good enough to fucking eat. He lets her catch her breath, her body trembling, her hand still sunk beneath her body.

He’s always enjoyed watching women come, whether quiet or loud, hard or soft, going still or shaking… but he doesn’t think he’s ever enjoyed it as much, never wanted to watch someone as much, even if there was nothing in it for him. Even if he can’t touch her, can’t even really see all that much of her.

Ellie licks her lips, her hand tightening in the duvet before relaxing, leaving it wrinkled and bunched up, her fingers shaky as she tilts her head up onto her folded arm, blinking at him even as her thighs still tremble. “Now you.”

This fucking girl, he thinks. “Me?”

Ellie nods, pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, comes out all shiny and wet. “I want to watch you.”

He shakes his head, “No—”

“But—” And _that’s_ a fucking _pout,_ so obvious it makes him fucking gloat, grin, rub a hand over his mouth to hide it, to control it.

 “You should say _thank you_ , _Daddy_ ,” he says, a warning in his voice. “And go to bed like the good girl your mother thinks you are.”

“But aren’t you—” she looks at him, still trembling, pink-cheeked and orgasm-loose, and he thinks he knows exactly what she’s thinking. _Hard,_ he finishes for her… _aren’t you hard._

“You want to know what I want, baby?” he asks, low, rough-edged, because he knows what he wants as soon as he says it, it’s all there in his mind. Ellie shakes her head, a little, bitten-lipped curiosity. “I’m going to go to have a cold shower, go to the gym, and wait for my girl to get back home. I'm going to save it up, and when she’s here, I’m going to fill her up with my cum until she’s leaking, fucking dripping me for days.”

Ellie’s mouth parts, she swallows, her eyes close and open in one slow blink.

“Would you like that, baby?”

 A nod, a soft little exhale of want pressed into the duvet before she pushes up, her hand wet as it braces on the bed. He can’t help but want to lick it clean, chase the traces of her orgasm off her fingers.

“Feeling better?” he asks, watching as she sits back on knees, nose wrinkling a little as she settles. Wet, he guesses, or rather, _fucking soaked_ would be the better description.

She nods, looking at him, still flushed and too pretty, too sweet, too much _his_ for her own good. “Thank you, Daddy.”

He smiles, a slow spreading, wide stretch of his lips, his heart heavy with it, his cock throbbing with it. “You’re welcome, baby. Now tell me about your weekend.”

Ellie chews her cheek, looking at him. "Is there really more? If you don't, you know...come?"

Nico laughs, but it turns into a groan at the earnest, fucking eager look on her face. "Yeah, baby, there's more."

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suona molto meglio a modo mio--- My way sounds so much better 
> 
>  
> 
> I think this might be the longest chapter yet!  
> As always, sorry about the wait and I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what you think!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [There is No Grief](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17792114) by [SophieHatter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophieHatter/pseuds/SophieHatter)




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